
















































































































































































































































Class JEXa_ 

Book_1 4 


Copi§lit^?_S-|2 c 


CGEffilGWT DEPOSE 


5n 

















SPILLED WINE 



SPILLED WINE 


ei 

G. ST. JOHN-LOE 




New York 

THOMAS SELTZER 


1923 






Copyright, 1923, by 
THOMAS SELTZER, Inc. 


All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



y 

A 090417 




CHARLES AND PETER 


* 


“Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling at first a little smile, 

As if he knew what magic slept 
In his quiet pipe the while.” 

—Robert Browning: 
The Pied Piper of Hamelin. 











SPILLED WINE 


CHAPTER I 

T HE house in which I was born has since been pulled 

down to make room for a cinema. It used to 
crouch, narrow and spiritless, above a small draper’s shop 
in the Portobello Road. It had a cowed look, like some¬ 
thing trapped into eternal and hideous subjection. Its 
dull eyes stared down out of a grimy face like a group of 
dominoes in a blank wall. It was the sort of house no 
one would ever be born in from choice. 

These things I remembered when I went in search of it 
a few weeks ago—and found instead the garish fagade of 
a picture palace. As I picked my way along the dirty, 
crowded pavement a great wonderment came over me. 
“Here,” I told myself incredulously, “I lived for seven 
years of my life! I saw these sights! I heard these 
sounds! I breathed this atmosphere! I lived precisely 
as these children around me are living now!” 

Very earnestly I strove to revive a definite sensation of 
recollection—to span the bridge of memories between my 
present self and that long ago, embryonic “Me,” and in 
doing so I grasped for the first time something of the 
fullness of the years that lay between; I realized how 
vagrant, how adventurous the journey had been. 


2 SPILLED WINE 

If heredity be the all-important factor some people 
would claim, I cannot even begin to explain myself. I am 
as unlike the parents who produced me as a jungle tiger is 
unlike a back-yard cat. This is neither exaggeration nor 
conceit. It is the truth. 

My father was a typical Cockney, soaked to the bone in 
all the little prides and prejudices of his class, slim, dap¬ 
per, restless, painstaking, an odd mixture of generosity 
and thrift, kindliness and bigotry. I can see him now, his 
well-brushed hair shining like varnish over his sleek head, 
his sandy moustaches carefully waxed at the ends, his 
twinkling, hazel eyes roving proudly over the contents of 
his little shop as he stood expectantly behind the counter. 

My mother, on the other hand, was an entirely negative 
personality, gentle, quiet-voiced, flaccid, with an air of 
superficial refinement that stood out against the back¬ 
ground of her environment like a bunch of flowers stuck 
into the cheap vase that habitually stood upon a crude, 
woollen mat in the little sitting-room behind the shop. 
She came originally from the country and her soft brown 
eyes, under their crown of wavy, nut-brown hair, never 
entirely lost the wistful look of a trapped missel-thrush. 
I have sometimes wondered whether the smallness and the 
neatness of her hands and feet had an explanation in the 
past amour of some impressionable squire’s son and 
whether, after all, I am quite as plebeian in origin as I 
might otherwise suppose. 

At the time of my birth they already had one other 
child, a boy of two named Stephen—generally shortened 
to “Steve.” Of this brother I have never had the least 
reason to be proud. In fact, as he grew up he developed 
into the worst kind of cad I have ever had the misfortune 


SPILLED WINE 


3 


to be acquainted with. In many ways he was very like my 
father, but with all my father’s failings magnified into 
positive vices. For instance, the quite harmless conceits 
of the one became in the other an insufferable arrogance, 
thrift a despicable meanness, commercial sagacity a pe¬ 
culiarly low grade of cunning and avarice. It is difficult 
to recall a single good quality that he possessed, yet un¬ 
questionably he was my parents’ favourite. They loved 
him with an intense, unreasoning love that had the effect 
of blinding them to all his faults. It was as though, in 
the enthusiasm of his begetting, in gratitude for the one 
romantic, brightly-coloured patch of their otherwise drab 
existence, they had unquestioningly accepted the fact of 
his perfection. 

For myself, I always had a feeling of being “in the 
way.” I am quite sure that neither of them ever really 
cared for me. They were never unkind; they were 
merely indifferent. They accepted me as an inconven¬ 
ient but accomplished fact and let it go at that. 

Looking back over those first early years I gather an 
impression of perpetual conflicts and irritations arising 
out of the inevitable clash of my own and Stephen’s 
utterly opposed natures. The fact that I never could 
“get on” with my brother probably contributed largely 
to my own unpopularity in the family circle. In other 
ways, also, I may have been to blame. I think it prob¬ 
able that I was not an attractive child, neither affectionate, 
nor “clinging,” nor even pretty, while at a very early age 
I developed an armour of reserve and independence 
which certainly did not jtend to improve matters. 

My general recollection of that pallid, far-away dawn 
of existence is so astonishingly meagre that at times I 


4 


SPILLED WINE 


have a difficulty in believing in it at all. It was as though 
my mind, like a sensitive plant, deliberately closed itself 
against an uncongenial atmosphere. Impressions that 
succeeded in lodging themselves indelibly in my brain are 
no more than disconnected patches, broken fragments in 
the mosaic of memory. They join on to nothing; they 
lead nowhere; they float, living, vivid scraps, in a sea of 
blankness. But they serve to give some idea of the con¬ 
ditions under which I lived. 

For instance, there is one of the shop, a dark, stuffy, 
over-stocked little interior with all the littered oddments 
of a low-class drapery trade flanking the walls, crowding 
the battered mahogany counter, hanging mysteriously 
from the ceiling, and in the midst of it all my mother, 
very docile and patient, supplying the needs of customers. 
I remember how her white face used to stand out against 
the dark rolls of material on the shelves behind her and 
how I used to love to watch the play of her hands as she 
measured off yards of ribbon or cloth. Even in those days 
I think I must have appreciated the fact that her hands 
were different from other people’s hands. 

The picture fades and another takes its place. I see 
myself seated with the rest of the family at a round table 
that almost entirely fills the small room at the back of the 
shop. In addition to my mother and father and Stephen, 
there is an old toothless grandmother of whom I am 
extravagantly afraid, and who makes strange mumbling 
noises as she eats. ... I see my father pick his teeth 
elaborately and drink his tea out of the saucer. ... I see 
Stephen slyly pricking holes in the cloth with a greasy 
fork. . . . 

Again, I see myself laboriously climbing the dark stair- 


SPILLED WINE 


5 

case that led upwards from a tiny passage outside the 
sitting-room door to some chilly, dim-lit room above. I 
feel the railings of the balusters shake under my childish 
hands like teeth in the jaws of a skull. . . . 

I see myself kneeling before one of those dull windows, 
peering curiously out upon the street below. It is Satur¬ 
day night and a noisy, jostling crowd is surging to and 
fro upon the pavements. Rows of cheap-jack stalls line 
the gutters. I blink as the yellow naphtha lights flare up¬ 
wards to the violet sky. . . . 

For the rest the slate of memory has been wiped clean, 
or at least so hopelessly blurred as to be indecipherable. 

From the fact that, in my seventh year, we moved to 
another shop in the Walworth Road, Camberwell, a far 
more pretentious shop than the one we had left, I gather 
that my father’s affairs were beginning to make substan¬ 
tial headway. 

If hard work and tireless personal devotion—combined 
with a certain, almost uncanny, aptitude for driving a 
bargain—could alone have ensured success, John Fielding 
would, I am convinced, have died a rich man. With a 
little more imagination, a little wider vision, a deeper 
sense of personal confidence he might, conceivably, have 
blossomed out into one of your modern commercial Napo¬ 
leons—a Self ridge, a Woolworth, a Jesse Boot. Even as 
it was, considering the smallness of his beginning, he 
must have done very well. 

The house behind the Camberwell shop was far larger 
and infinitely more pleasant than the one in Portobello 
Road. Its rooms were more spacious, its stairs wider and 
it had nice, big, airy windows. It even boasted a strip of 
garden with a tumble-down rockery, a vine growing in a 


6 SPILLED WINE 

tub and a laburnum that broke faithfully into blossom 
every May. 

The neighbourhood was also an improvement. At 
times, especially on a Saturday night, it exhibited the 
same tendency to rowdiness as Portobello Road, but it 
was certainly more prosperous. One had a feeling of 
being less cramped. 

Altogether life assumed a more rosy outlook. A ser¬ 
vant came to help my mother with the housework, whilst 
two, and presently three, assistants filled her place in the 
shop. My father donned the conventional livery of 
middle-class respectability, a frock coat, and walked 
about rubbing his hands briskly together, addressing per¬ 
petual fussy remarks to every one he encountered, and 
looking each day more and more blatantly conscious of 
the success he was achieving. If anything his moustaches 
grew stiffer, his head more shiny—now with the best po¬ 
made—his ties more excruciatingly “natty.” He never 
grew fat, he never lost his almost bird-like appearance 
of Cockney dandyism, yet something about the very lines 
of his figure began presently to proclaim the subtle bloom 
of opulence. 

For several years things went remarkably well with 
the business—so well, in fact, that between my tenth and 
twelfth birthdays my father was able to buy up first one 
and then another of the two shops that flanked his own, 
and eventually, at considerable cost, to have all three con¬ 
solidated into one large up-to-date “drapery store.” 

Such an extension of premises naturally necessitated a 
much larger staff, and thus it happened that Martin Arm¬ 
strong, in the person of one of my father’s employees, first 
came into my life. 


SPILLED WINE 


7 


He was a tall, pale young man of about twenty, with 
eyes of a peculiarly lucid grey; thick, lightish brown hair 
swept carelessly back from an exceptionally high fore¬ 
head ; a tender, almost womanish mouth and a general air 
of dreamy preoccupation which, even to the inquiring eyes 
of a child, hardly fitted him for the role of drapery sales¬ 
man. 

We became great friends from the first. He inspired 
me with an admiration more intense than anything of a 
like nature I had yet experienced. His coming brightened 
and quickened my whole existence in a way that I find 
difficult to describe. It was as though he came to me out 
of a new world, bringing a new message, speaking a new 
language. He was the first person of any real education 
or refinement I had ever known. 

Most of us, in the course of development, pass through 
the hands of various accidental “teachers”—people who, 
for some reason or other, leave a lasting effect upon our 
characters. Martin was, without doubt, the first impor¬ 
tant influence in my life. He took the formless lump of 
clay that was Ann Fielding, and, setting it upon the pot¬ 
ter’s wheel, shaped it to its vague outline, gave some sug¬ 
gestion of purpose to what, up to that time, had been no 
more than a mass of dormant possibilities. To him I owe 
my first awakening to the mental joys of life, my first 
knowledge of music, art, literature. Inspired by our 
endless talks together, my fancy took its first brave flights 
into realms beyond the utmost limits of the narrow little 
world in which I lived. In short, I owe more to that first 
dear, generous friend of my childhood than I could ever 
adequately express, than he can ever possibly have 
guessed. 


8 


SPILLED WINE 


As our friendship deepened I came to be acquainted 
with the circumstances of his personal history. I learnt 
that his father had been a music teacher and his mother 
the daughter of impoverished country gentlefolk, and 
that both of them were now dead. 

“We lived in a little house in Tunbridge Wells,” he 
told me, “and when my mother died, six months ago, I 
came to London because I thought I should have a better 
chance of earning a living—and also because the only 
friend I have, an old German violinist who was greatly 
attached to my father, lives at Brixton. My ambition is 
to be a violinist also—Herr Schiller has given me lessons 
since I was seven years old—but in the meantime I must 
live and so I went after any job I saw advertised until I 
got this one with your father. It isn’t what I’d choose, of 
course, but then ‘beggars can’t be choosers.’ ” 

We were sitting on a rough wooden bench near the top 
of Dog Kennel Hill. It was early-closing day, a lovely 
evening in June, and we had taken our first walk together. 
As we sat staring over a bristling panorama of roofs and 
chimney-pots and church spires to where, in the distance, 
the sun struck patches of golden flame from the curved 
roof of the Crystal Palace ? I was conscious of a great out- 
rush of sympathy towards this gentle-voiced, dreamy- 
eyed man at my side. I was glad Fate had sent him to me 
for a friend. Already I felt that I understood him so 
well. 

Impulsively I slipped an arm through his. 

“I knew you weren’t a real shop assistant the very first 
moment I saw you,” I confided, “you’ve got quite a dif¬ 
ferent look. It must be very dull for you—serving stupid 
women with calico and flannelette, instead of playing your 


SPILLED WINE 


9 


violin. But perhaps, one day, when you’ve saved up 
some money, you’ll be able to go away and be a real vio¬ 
linist and—and play at concerts and things.” I nodded 
several times as though the whole matter were a fore¬ 
gone conclusion. “Yes, of course, that is what you 
must do.” 

He gave me a look that I shall never forget, a quick 
grateful flash out of his misty grey eyes. It was as 
though his very soul were thanking me. 

“That’s what I want to do,” he replied. “That’s what 
I dream about night and day—what I’m living for! How 
did you guess?” 

I gave his arm a little squeeze. I felt flattered and 
excited. I felt that he was treating me as an equal. 

“I’m your friend,” I announced simply, “and friends 
always guess things about each other!” 

Again his eyes sought mine. For a moment he did not 

r 

speak, then: 

“You’re a wonderful kid!” he said. “You seem to be 
almost as much out of place as I am.” 

I think my parents took rather a fancy to Martin. Al¬ 
though he may not have been exactly brilliant from a 
business point of view, he was so courteous, so painstak¬ 
ing, so obviously conscientious and eager to please that 
they could not very well have helped liking him. Also I 
think they were impressed by the superiority of his speech 
and manner. At any rate, they seemed quite undisturbed 
by our rapidly growing friendship and never attempted 
to put the slightest check upon our intercourse. 

Thus it came about that we spent the greater part of 
all our free time together, such time consisting princi- 


IO 


SPILLED WINE 


pally of Sundays and the evenings of early-closing days. 
We took long ’bus rides to such places as Richmond and 
Hampstead Heath and tramped for hours talking eagerly 
upon the most varied topics with a pleasure which some¬ 
how never seemed to flag. 

Very early in our acquaintance Martin joined a library 
and began to bring me books to read, wonderful books 
that opened new windows in my mind and started me off 
down a thousand fresh channels of fascinating discovery. 
And when I had read them we talked about them. 

Martin talked rather well in a jerky vivid way that I 
found especially pleasing. He was never exactly brilliant. 
Often he blundered helplessly after some word that eluded 
him. But he sketched, he hinted, he managed somehow 
to convey a general impression of the delicious mysteries 
awaiting me behind the curtain of the Future. 

He talked best of all about music and his ambition to 
become a great artist. Upon this subject he never 
wearied; he lost all sense of restraint or self-conscious¬ 
ness and I, for my part, never grew tired of listening to 
him. Something about the electric quality of his en¬ 
thusiasm fired me to an answering eagerness. In time 
I grew almost to envy him, to wish I had an equally 
glorious career to look forward to. 

I remember a certain evening in particular. We had 
taken a tram ride to the Victoria Embankment and were 
walking about the gardens listening to the music of a 
County Council band. It was already dusk and the 
fagades of the great hotels were aglow with amber light, 
whilst the lamps upon either side of the river hung like 
luminous beads upon invisible strings and dripped their 
shimmering reflections into the water below. It was a 


SPILLED WINE 


ii 


lovely night in early September, the sort of night when 
the sky is violet and all shadows have a suggestion of vel¬ 
vet and mystery about them, when the figures of lovers 
walking softly to and fro create an irresistible impres¬ 
sion of romance. 

I think something of the atmosphere must have crept 
unconsciously into both our moods. We walked about 
feeling inexplicably adventurous, with a queer, reckless 
wonderment pricking and tingling in our blood. 

“One day,” Martin said, and his voice beat like a 
passionate rhythm into the dreamy harmonies of a pop¬ 
ular waltz, “one day I’m going to get free of all this—this 
soulless servitude! One day I’m going to make people 
listen to me. I’m going to make them listen! Oh, little 
Ann, I wonder if you can understand all it means to me— 
this great hunger inside me—the excitement of it—the 
glorious intoxication—and sometimes the despair? . . . 
But it’s coming—one day, if only I’ve got the gift and 
patience to stick it out. Herr Schiller believes in me, and 
he knows! If only the waiting weren’t so tedious—and 
so long! This isn’t life! It’s stagnation! Sometimes I 
feel as though I were being held down and slowly 
strangled. Strangled! ’ ’ 

He broke off and stared down into my face as we 
passed within the radiance of a yellow patch of lamp¬ 
light. 

“I wonder if you think that just nonsense—melodra¬ 
matic rubbish?” he inquired abruptly. “You’re such a 
wise little kid. You look at me with such comprehend¬ 
ing eyes—as though you quite understood. Do you, I 
wonder?” 

“I think,” I replied, “that what you say you will do, 


12 


SPILLED WINE 


you will do. If one wants anything very much, with all 
one’s heart, I think there is always a way of getting it. I 
want things also. I don’t know yet exactly what kind of 
things. But one day I shall know and then I shall get 
them. Oh, yes, I’m quite sure I shall get them.” And I 
nodded seriously several times. 

For a while Martin did not reply; then—very slowly 
and thoughtfully he said: 

“I wonder what bit of good fortune sent me to you? 
You’ve got the most convincing way of putting things. 
You seem to inspire me with a certainty of success. You 
give me the oddest feeling of confidence. I wonder 
why?” 

As the autumn merged into winter and the weather 
became too cold for out-of-door excursions we went to 
picture galleries, museums and concerts instead. For the 
latter Martin was often able to obtain free passes through 
Herr Schiller, who played in the orchestra at Queen’s 
Hall. And once during January he had the good fortune 
to be given a couple of tickets for an opera at Covent 
Garden. 

The piece was Madame Butterfly and to this day I 
remember the powerful effect it had upon me. From 
beginning to end I sat entranced, afraid to move or speak 
in case I should wake up and find it was all a dream. 

On the way home I talked of it to Martin in tones of 
hushed reverence. 

“I understand now why you want to be a musician,” I 
said. “I know what you mean when you say you will 
make people listen to you. All the time they were sing¬ 
ing I had a feeling that I wanted to keep very, very still— 


SPILLED WINE 


13 


not to breathe almost—and, at the same time, I wanted 
to cry out, to shout, to make a noise that would drown 
everything and fill the whole world! Is that how you 
feel?” 

He looked at me in the dim light of the swaying horse 
’bus. His face seemed at once serious yet smiling. 

“Something,” he said. 

There was a pause, during which I stared blankly out 
at the moving pageant of Walworth Road. Suddenly I 
went on: 

“I never knew before—that music could hurt!” 

He nodded. v 

“It can,” he said. “All beautiful things can hurt—if 
you’ve got that sort of nature. It’s like strange hands 
playing on the strings of our hearts. We can’t help re¬ 
sponding—we can’t control it in any way—but we don’t 
know what it is. I don’t suppose we ever could!” 

It must have been shortly after this that Martin first 
made the hesitating proposal that I should go to his 
lodgings for the purpose of hearing him play. 

“I can’t think of any other way,” he apologized. “And 
perhaps—just once wouldn’t matter. It’s not much of a 
place, only a sort of attic at the top of a house in Well¬ 
ington Street.” 

I clapped my hands excitedly. 

“Oh, what does that matter?” I cried. “I shan’t be 
going to see the room.” 

“Well then—if you’re quite sure you won’t mind-?” 

“But why should I? It won’t make any difference to 
your playing, will it?” 

“Nothing that you’ll notice. But it wasn’t that I 
meant.” 



14 


SPILLED WINE 


“Then what did you mean?” 

“Oh, nothing, nothing really. Nothing that could 
apply to you.” 

And so it was settled, and on the following Sunday 
afternoon we went together to a house in a very shabby 
road near the Elephant and Castle. It was of the usual 
“lodging-house” variety, very dark and cramped and 
stuffy. The smell of fried fish and boiled vegetables and 
the sound of harshly disputing voices floated up beside 
me as I climbed several flights of stairs to a room that 
was no larger than a good-sized cupboard. It had bare 
boards, upon which lay one small, threadbare strip of car¬ 
pet; the wallpaper hung in torn shreds from the walls 
and sloping ceilings; a piece of dirty curtain flapped de¬ 
jectedly before the small open window, whilst the furni¬ 
ture consisted merely of a bed, a chair, a chest of draw¬ 
ers and a box. 

Such things did not matter, however. In fact I scarcely 
noticed them as I sat upon the single rickety chair and 
listened, entranced, to the music which Martin seemed 
presently to be drawing from the very soul of his violin. 

He stood with his head almost touching the ceiling, one 
piece of loose hair trailing limply down over his white 
brows, his whole expression one of intense, almost rap¬ 
turous delight. And as I listened a feeling of strange 
emotion came over me. Even the great pleasure which 
Madame Butterfly had given me was slight compared 
with the wild ecstasy of appreciation that now awoke in 
me. I don’t know what I had come prepared to hear. 
Certainly nothing so exquisitely beautiful as this. 

After a while I found my gaze wandering from my 
friend’s face to the open window, where a piece of west- 


SPILLED WINE 


i5 


ern sky reddened slowly between stacks of soot-grimed 
chimney-pots. For the time being I seemed to lose my¬ 
self, to float, dreamy and quiescent, into the crimson glory 
of the evening sky. . . . Then, abruptly, the playing 
stopped and I came back almost violently to earth again. 

From that time forward my belief in Martin’s genius, 
in the certainty of his ultimate success, became fixed and 
unalterable in my mind. I was disappointed when, for 
some reason that I could not discover, he refused ever to 
take me to his little attic room again. 

“One day, if things go well, I’ll have a proper room of 
my own—and then you shall come as often as you like— 
little Ann,” he said. “But my bedroom isn’t a fit place 
for you. Your mother would be angry if she knew I 
took you.” 

“But why?” I pleaded. 

And then he smiled, a little sadly, a little wistfully. 

“One day you’ll understand,” he said. 


CHAPTER II 


M V father’s prosperity continued to increase. Each 
year saw him a little better off, a little more 
firmly established in the ranks of successful middle-class 
tradesmen. 

When I was thirteen he bought a private residence and 
we ceased to live over the shop. 

“Laburnum Villa” was a large, old-fashioned, rather 
attractive-looking house in Dulwich. It stood in nearly 
half an acre of ground, had a carriage drive in front with 
pillars and carved stone urns guarding the door and alto¬ 
gether possessed an air of aristocratic, if somewhat de¬ 
cayed grandeur which I think must have influenced my 
parents very strongly in its favour. 

Like most people of their class they were snobs at 
heart, and now that prosperity was bringing them leisure 
and a modest degree of affluence they were not long in 
revealing the fact. They developed a decided penchant 
for superficial refinement. They began to cast about for 
ways and means of increasing their self-respect, of build¬ 
ing up an illusion of that particular brand of “gentility” 
they so ardently and slavishly admired. The chance ac¬ 
quaintance with a retired naval captain and his wife— 
made over the garden wall in the process of borrowing a 
lawn-mower and cemented two days later over afternoon 
tea in the newly decorated, very much over-furnished 
drawing-room—lent a decided impetus to their budding 

ambition^, My mother began to take in certain so-called 

16 



SPILLED WINE 


i7 


“society papers,” and sedulously to ape the supposed 
fashions and habits of the “upper classes”; whilst my 
father affected a diamond tie-pin and white spats, gave 
up pipe-smoking in favour of a particularly opulent brand 
of cigar and bought a dog-cart in which he drove osten¬ 
tatiously about on Sunday afternoons. 

Finally, and most important of all from the point of 
view of my subsequent development, their attention be¬ 
came aroused to the all-important matter of their chil¬ 
dren’s education. They began to realize the necessity 
of providing us with the correct educational cachet suit¬ 
able to our improved prospects. 

Of course Stephen came first in consideration. They 
decided that no money or pains should be spared over his 
conversion into “a thorough gentleman.” Eventually, 
through the influence of the impecunious naval captain, 
he was sent to Sherborne in the spring of 1904, it being 
an understood thing that I should follow on to some suit¬ 
able boarding-school in the autumn. 

My brother’s departure was a great relief to me. The 
world became a freer, happier place. My various inter¬ 
ests seemed suddenly to widen and deepen in a quite sur¬ 
prising manner. I had the garden, which I grew to love 
and in which I spent a great deal of time; I had the 
steadily increasing library of books, which a generous 
supply of pocket money now permitted me to acquire, and 
I had my friendship with Martin Armstrong. In fact the 
summer which followed stands out in my mind as one of 
the pleasantest I ever remember. It was the summer in 
which I first became acquainted with the novels of Char¬ 
lotte Bronte and Charles Reade, and made my first blun¬ 
dering attempts to understand Darwin’s “Origin of Spe- 


SPILLED WINE 


18 

cies” and Spencer’s “First Principles.” It was also the 
summer in which I first became possessed of a bicycle. 

Martin had one also by this time, and we used to ride 
about a good deal together. How clearly it all comes 
back to me, those warm, delicious evenings when we spun 
out into the open country that stretches beyond Bromley 
and Catford into Kent! We were both full of health and 
ambition and an intense, throbbing desire to make some¬ 
thing of life. We talked in sweeping sentences of the 
future! We dreamed great dreams; we built glorious 
castles in the scented summer air. Without knowing the 
reason why, we were profoundly and intensely happy. 

It was during these rides together that Martin first 
began to talk definitely of leaving the shop and making a 
bid for success as a violinist. 

“I’ve been here eighteen months,” he told me one Sun¬ 
day afternoon as we sat upon a gate looking into a cherry 
orchard in full blossom. “Eighteen months! And every 
day of it’s been a struggle between what I’ve wanted to 
do and what I’ve felt was most sensible to do. But I 
think it’s time I made a move now. Max Schiller thinks 
he can help me to get into the orchestra of a West End 
theatre. That ’ud be quite a good beginning—splendid 
in fact—and I should try and get hold of some pupils— 
and do composition. Oh, I think there’s a chance if only 
I stick tight and don’t get disheartened to begin with. 
. . . I’m quite prepared for it to be difficult, but it’ll 
be work I shall like doing. I shall have my heart in it. 
And I’ve managed to save up a little money in case things 
don’t go too well at first. Yes, the more I think about 
it the more I think it’s time I took the plunge.” 

Staring at the cherry trees I answered: 


SPILLED WINE 


19 


“I think you’re right, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t 
be successful. A shop isn’t the right place for you. It 
must make you feel sometimes as if you were in prison.” 

He nodded, broke a twig from the hedge and began to 
chew the end of it thoughtfully. 

“That’s exactly the feeling,” he said. “Exactly! I’d 
rather work hard at music all my life—and be a poor 
man at the end of it—than be a rich draper.” 

“Of course,” I agreed. “When you’re an artist you’re 
having your pleasure all the time you’re working. When 
you’re a business man you have to make money to buy 
your pleasure afterwards—and very often when you 
come to look round there’s nothing you want to buy— 
nothing you could really enjoy if you had it.” 

“I don’t think it’s always like that,” Martin objected, 
“I think lots of business men like their work; it gives 
them a certain satisfaction.” 

“But—but is such a satisfaction ever the same?” 

For several moments he chewed the end of the twig in 
silence, then: 

“Probably not. I should think—probably not,” he 
answered. 

I became aware that arrangements connected with 
sending me to boarding-school were in process of ma¬ 
turing. 

“Of course a girl isn’t as important as a boy,” I heard 
my mother say as I chanced to pass an open door on one 
occasion. “But a certain amount of finishing off will 
be a help when it comes to getting her married. And 
we’ve got to think of Steve. His sister mustn’t disgrace 


20 SPILLED WINE 

him. We must choose a good school while we’re about 
it.” 

Prospectuses began to come to the house. Letters were 
written. The wife of the retired naval gentleman was 
consulted. Finally, after much earnest discussion, a 
“ladies’ college” near Eastbourne was chosen. It trans¬ 
pired that the captain’s wife had a niece, “a distant rela¬ 
tion to a baronet” who had just been “finished off” 
there, and so to this seminary of knowledge and lady-like 
accomplishments I was dispatched in due course. 

I was quite pleased to go. My one regret lay in the 
fact of my separation from Martin. 

On the evening before I left home he came to say good¬ 
bye to me, and as we sat together upon a fallen pear tree 
at the end of the garden, I clung to him in a sudden pas¬ 
sion of childish distress. 

“Promise, promise that you won’t forget me—that it 
won’t make any difference to our being friends!” I 
sobbed. “And promise to write to me very, very often 
—every week at least!” 

Slipping an arm about my shoulders he gently stroked 
my hair with his long white fingers. 

“You know I’ll do that, little Ann,” he said. His 
voice sounded odd and husky, and there was quite a long 
pause before he went on. “Terms go by very quickly, 
and we shall always be able to see one another in the 
holidays. I shall miss you far more than you’ll miss me— 
far more—but I’d be selfish to want to keep you back. 
It’s all for your good, the very best thing that could have 
happened. I’ve been hoping for something of the sort.” 

And then, in the dusk of the September evening, we 


SPILLED WINE 


21 


said a final good-bye and walked very slowly and reluct¬ 
antly back to the house. 

I arrived at Kingsmead at the beginning of the autumn 
term, a few days after my fourteenth birthday, and set¬ 
tled down very contentedly into my new environment. 

On the whole it was quite a good school, and the three 
years which I spent there were very happy years. I was 
fond of lessons. Learning came easily to me. I liked 
finding out about things. And so, without any particular 
effort, I always managed to keep a place near the head 
of my class. 

I made a wide circle of friends, but only one intimate 
companion—a girl named Alma Gayland. She was three 
years older than myself, big-boned, rather clumsy in ap¬ 
pearance, with black, untidy hair, a sallow complexion, 
large dark brown eyes that always reminded me of the 
eyes of some big, faithful dog, and the most generous and 
unselfish disposition it would be possible to imagine. 

She slept in the next cubicle to mine, and at first our 
friendship was as much a matter of propinquity as any¬ 
thing else. We used to sit together upon the foot of her 
bed after “lights out’ 7 and talk in the low, hushed whis¬ 
pers of conspirators. There was a window near her bed 
which looked out over the garden and into which the 
moon used to stream in a wedge of silver radiance that 
moved like a gleaming geometric shape across the white 
counterpanes. With arms about each other’s shoulders 
we would sit and gaze at the wheeling pageant of the 
stars, wondering at the strange emotion that thrilled and 
teased our souls, speculating upon the measureless mys¬ 
tery of the universe and its relationship to human lives. 


22 


SPILLED WINE 


In such moments we exchanged our most intimate con¬ 
fidences, unlocked the deepest secrets, the vaguest as¬ 
pirations of our hearts. 

I discovered that Alma was an orphan and that her 
education was being paid for by the maiden aunt with 
whom she had lived since she was five years old. 

“I’ve only got one more year here—and then I shall 
have to leave and earn my own living,” she told me on 
one occasion, and as she spoke a wistful, serious expres¬ 
sion came into her big eyes. “Aunt Mildred has only a 
very small income and already I must have cost her a 
great deal. I shall have to work very hard to pay her 
back.” 

“But what will you do?” I inquired, “I mean what 
sort of work?” 

For a moment she looked at me almost wonderingly, as 
if she thought it strange that I should ask such a ques¬ 
tion; then: 

“I’m going to be an artist—of course,” she said. 

This was right at the beginning of our friendship. As 
time went on I had opportunities of realizing that her 
statement was no idle boast, but the outcome of a very 
legitimate ambition. She could draw and paint with 
astonishing cleverness. She was never at her best doing 
the ordinary “still-life” studies of the art classes. Her 
talent was utterly divorced from the “conventional” and 
commonplace. It was the dreams of the soul rather than 
the objects of physical vision that most inspired her. 
Pixies, gnomes, weird moonlight and forest effects, quaint 
fancies suggested by legend and fairy tale, all manner of 
fantastic decorative designs, these were the subjects Alma 


SPILLED WINE 23 

loved and executed with such ease, such charm, such 
piquant originality. 

“When I leave here I shall begin at once to paint for 
a living,” she confided to me with the serenity of one 
who states an incontrovertible fact. “What are you 
going to do?” 

I returned her confidence by revealing my already 
nascent desire to write. She nodded, thoughtfully, ap¬ 
provingly. 

“That’s the next best thing to painting,” she conceded. 
“I’ll illustrate your books if you like.” 

I thanked her laughingly. 

“But I shan’t write about fairies, you know,” I warned 
her. “I’m not an idealist. My stories are going to be 
real-life stories. I think life is so interesting naturally 
that it’s silly to try and improve on it—write about things 
as you would like them to be instead of as they really 
are.” 

From which conversation you will gather that the in¬ 
herent desire after truth, which later on was to carry me 
so recklessly off the beaten track of conventionality, had 
already taken root in my soul. 

I grew very fond of Alma, but my affection never 
reached the heights—the almost subliminal heights—of 
her love for me. She cared for me with the deep and 
passionate devotion of a peculiarly warm-hearted nature. 
She waited upon me hand and foot; she served me and 
spoilt me in a thousand secret ways. Sometimes when I 
looked at her I was reminded of a great, shaggy-coated 
dog licking the hand of an adored master. 

Altogether my life at Kingsmead was full of interest, 


24 


SPILLED WINE 


of steady physical development and mental growth. I 
changed greatly in all directions. My whole outlook be¬ 
came readjusted. I began to set up new personal stand¬ 
ards, to look at life out of new eyes. 

I suppose my natural thirst after knowledge, coupled 
with an innate desire towards self-betterment, would, 
under any conditions, have tended to thrust me upwards 
out of the sphere into which I had been born, but there 
is no denying that those three years helped me tremen¬ 
dously. Not all the girls at Kingsmead were the children 
of gentlefolk, but a great many of them were, and, in any 
case, the general “tone” was distinctly higher than any¬ 
thing I had yet been accustomed to. The inevitable 
result was to make me very keenly aware of the fact of 
my own lack of breeding. I began to realize something 
that I had already dimly suspected—that I belonged to 
a hopelessly mediocre branch of society; that I had, as it 
were, been dropped into a little blind-alley of small aims, 
narrow outlooks and shoddy achievements, and that it 
behooved me to climb out of it as rapidly as possible. 

I felt as a young eaglet might feel who, finding himself 
in a crow’s nest, sights the far away, lofty peaks of the 
mountains and is seized with an imperative desire to 
reach them. 

I began to “climb” with every means in my power. 

As each holiday came round I realized more and more 
acutely that I was growing ashamed of my parents. I 
found myself judging them secretly—and hating myself 
for doing it. I found myself drifting to the position of a 
complete and critical stranger in the family circle. Even 
if I had loved them infinitely more than I did I am con¬ 
vinced that their obvious lack of refinement would have 


SPILLED WINE 


25 


grated unbearably upon my awakened sensibilities. As 
it was, matters ripened quickly to a condition of vague, 
mutual irritation that was as inevitable as it was uncom¬ 
fortable. 

To make matters worse Stephen did not improve in the 
least. If anything he became steadily coarser and more 
objectionable. The only difference I noticed in him was 
a growing tendency to swaggering importance which I 
found particularly difficult to put up with. 

For these and other reasons school-life came eventually 
to be more congenial than home-life. But for Martin 
I should not have looked forward to the holidays with 
any very great zest. 

Martin kept his promise about writing to me. Regu¬ 
larly every Monday morning I received a thick budget 
of news. And about half-way through my first term he 
wrote to tell me that he was leaving the shop. 

“I’ve got the job I told you about,” he said. “IPs 
in the orchestra of the Pavilion . The pay isn’t anything 
special, but I can see there are prospects. I ought to 
have done it before. And I’m going to teach—in fact 
I’ve already got two prospective pupils. Max Schiller is 
being a brick. He’s helping me tremendously. . . . I’ve 
taken some quite decent lodgings at Notting Hill.” 

I wrote back expressing my pleasure and excitement, 
and hoping that his new venture would be attended with 
all the success it deserved. 

“You make me feel dreadfully impatient,” I said. 
“Here I am chained up for another three years whilst 
you are already getting to grips with things. Already I 
find myself planning out stories I mean to write one 


26 


SPILLED WINE 


day! . . . Won’t it be glorious when we’ve both made 
names for ourselves? When we are somebodies?” 

During my first holiday we saw each other fairly 
frequently. Martin now had more free time than for¬ 
merly, and he spent it in taking me about, “showing me 
London” as he put it. 

A new phase of life began to unfold to me. I began to 
gain a certain knowledge of the West End. Oxford 
Street, Bond Street, Piccadilly, became real places in¬ 
stead of the vague myths they had hitherto remained. 
From a corner seat in some popular tea shop or res¬ 
taurant I would gaze at the dazzling ornamentation of 
painted ceiling and gilded walls, I would listen to the 
sensuous strains of an up-to-date band or the high- 
pitched voices and gay laughter of the throng about me, 
and a deep intriguing wonder would take possession of 
me. I had no means of gauging the shoddy insignificance 
of it all. To me it was the essence of novelty, of interest, 
of bewildering delight. Its fascination never palled. 

“You know—life’s very full!” I sententiously re¬ 
marked on one such occasion. “One could never grow 
tired of even just looking at it—because one could never 
quite take it all in. Something would be sure to escape— 
and so one couldn’t ever get bored. . . . Don’t you think?” 

Martin smiled. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said. “I 
thought you would. It is rather jolly—all this—when 
one’s seeing it for the first time. There’s a sort of glam¬ 
our about it. It suggests—all there is underneath, all 
the fascinating, intimate things one might find out, if 
one lived amongst it, instead of being just a—a sort of 
casual onlooker.” 


SPILLED WINE 


27 

We talked a good deal about his new prospects, about 
the various openings that might come to him through his 
position in the orchestra. 

“Things are really panning out better than I had dared 
to hope/’ he told me. “Already I’ve made several friends 
who may be useful to me. Only the other evening a man 
at the theatre put me in the way of some Sunday concert 
work which looks as if it might be a good thing. And 
another man wants me to set a couple of songs to music. 
Only pot-boilers of course, sentimental, catchy things. 
But I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a shot at it. One 
never knows what one can do till one tries.” 

The songs turned out a moderate success, and he began 
to get commissions for others; the Sunday concert work 
proved a good thing financially, and began to bring him 
modestly before a certain section of the public. Alto¬ 
gether, by the end of the first year, Martin seemed to 
have his feet fairly well placed upon the lowest rung of 
the ladder of success. 

I began to dream dreams of him one day becoming 
famous and of myself writing his biography. 

Indirectly I think Martin must have had something to 
do with stimulating my desire to write. I don’t know 
exactly when it was that my talent for composition first 
developed out of a pretty fancy into a definitely rooted 
ambition, though I imagine it must have been very 
shortly after I first went to Kingsmead. 

I remember discussing it with Martin during one of 
my summer holidays. 

“I always said I should find out, one day, what it was 
I wanted to do,” I reminded him. “And now I have. 


28 


SPILLED WINE 


IPs the one thing I want to do more than anything else 
in all the world—and I’m sure I can do it.” 

It was a lovely evening in August, and we were stand¬ 
ing by the lake in Dulwich Park. I had paused to watch 
a couple of swans glide towards us, leaving ruffled, fan¬ 
shaped wakes in the pellucid surface of the water, and, 
now, with a little air of triumph, I turned my back upon 
them and looked into Martin’s face. 

“You know how one sometimes can feel sure—about 
things like that?” I went on eagerly. “It sort of sings 
in one’s bones. There’s an American girl at school who 
calls that sort of thing a ‘hunch.’ Well, I’ve got a hunch 
that I’m going to write books—and no one’s going to stop 
me.” 

He considered me intently out of his dreamy grey 
eyes, and what I saw in his face made me feel suddenly 
very proud. He was looking at me as one artist might 
look at another. I knew that he was taking me seriously, 
that he believed in me. 

“You’re a wonderful girl, you know,” he said slowly. 
“I shouldn’t wonder if you didn’t, one day, make a name 
for yourself—become somebody! There’s a—a sort of 
something about you! I don’t know what it is. You’re 
not a bit ordinary!” 

I flushed with pride and gratification. A delicious glow 
of happiness swept over me. 

“You’re a dear to say that,” I thanked him, “because 
I know you mean it. And I’m going to prove that you 
aren’t wrong either. Oh, you’ll see!” 

And I nodded vigorously, smiling into his eyes with 
the serene confidence of untried youth. 


CHAPTER III 


A LMA left Kingsmead at the end of my first year 
and after that my friendships were never more 
than casual. I never came to care for another girl as 
sincerely as I cared for Alma. 

To begin with she wrote to me frequently, long, ram¬ 
bling letters, telling me what she was doing and her 
plans for the future. She began to talk of her art from 
a professional and money-making point of view. She 
seemed to grow miraculously from a school girl into an 
independent and very confident young woman. 

Then, just when things appeared to be going par¬ 
ticularly well with her, when she seemed to have achieved 
a good start and was beginning to talk very hopefully 
of the future, her aunt died and she was left penniless 
and entirely alone. 

Exactly what happened during the next eighteen 
months I have never been able to discover. For more 
than a year I lost touch with her altogether. I believe 
now that she deliberately severed the bonds of our in¬ 
timacy in order that I might not discover the depths of 
hardship and distress through which she was passing. In 
spite of her natural frankness she was extremely sensi¬ 
tive in all matters affecting her pride and could, on 
occasions, be extremely reticent. In the end, however, 
she won triumphantly through all her difficulties. Two 

years later, at the time our friendship came to be re- 

29 


3 o SPILLED WINE 

newed, she was living in Chelsea and beginning to make 
a fairly good living. 

Meanwhile my three years at Kingsmead were draw¬ 
ing rapidly to a close. 

Looking back over the period of which I am now 
writing I see my life divided sharply into two interests— 
school work and Martin. The latter still retained a tre¬ 
mendous influence over me. In spite of the fact that 
he was nearly nine years my senior I don’t think either 
of us was ever conscious of the difference in our ages. 
There was never any suggestion of him stooping, intellec¬ 
tually, to the level of a schoolgirl. 

By this time our friendship had developed into a very 
rare camaraderie. We were astonishingly free from any 
consciousness of sex. We might have been two youths of 
similar age and ideals stepping out together into the 
arena of life’s contests. I don’t think it ever even entered 
my head to consider whether Martin were good-looking 
or not. I knew that he admired me, but it was the sort 
of admiration that he might have had for another man. 
For five years our friendship remained entirely platonic— 
frank, single-purposed, delightful. 

We often discussed love and kindred subjects, in fact 
I cannot recall any topic of general interest that we did 
not talk about quite freely, but always from an imper¬ 
sonal point of view. 

“If I am to write stories which are true to life and 
which will interest intelligent people, I must know all I 
can about everything,” I remember saying to him very 
earnestly on one occasion. “Most people seem to fall in 
love and most people get married. According to the 
average novel they do precious little else. Of course, it’s 


SPILLED WINE 


3i 


overdone—horribly. At times it makes one positively 
sick—as if one had been eating chocolate creams for a 
solid hour on end. One wants to hit out—and take big 
gulps of fresh air! ... But the fact remains that there 
must be something in it!” 

We were seated upon a piece of broken-down fence 
somewhere near Bushey, our bicycles lying in a ditch 
beside us, our attention pleasantly divided between sand¬ 
wiches and philosophical discussion. I fancied I caught 
the flicker of a smile on Martin’s lips as he answered. 

“You’re really the quaintest kid! You’ve got such an 
original way of looking at things. One certainly couldn’t 
call you conventional.” 

“But don’t you think I’m right?” 

“My dear, one is always right—when one is too young 
to have learnt to be wrong.” 

“Now what do you mean by that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“But you must have meant something.” 

“Then if I meant anything I suppose I mean that 
there are some people whose instincts seem to be in¬ 
variably right.” 

“Meaning me?” 

“Perhaps.” 

I laughed. 

“Thanks!” I said. “What nonsense you do talk.” 

“Do I?” 

“But nice nonsense, Martin; nice nonsense.” 

He was silent for a long time, looking at me in a 
speculative, dissecting sort of way, his head a little on 
one side, the smile still lingering upon his lips. Then, 


32 SPILLED WINE 

slowly brushing some crumbs from his knees, he re¬ 
marked : 

“I wonder what sort of a woman you’ll grow into? 
. . . I’m always wondering that.” 

Sometimes, before Martin went to the theatre in the 
evening, he would take me to dine in one of the many 
shabby little restaurants of Soho. The atmosphere of 
such places inspired me with an exaggerated sense of 
romance and interest. The greasy, foreign appearance 
of the waiters, the limp table-cloths and napkins, the 
unusual nature of the food, the strange, often weird 
appearance of the people who frequented them, all ap¬ 
pealed very strongly to my imagination. Already I be¬ 
gan to look upon myself as a potential Bohemian. 

“One more year and I shall be free to start life in 
earnest!” I announced one evening as we lingered over 
coffee and ices in a secluded corner of the “Boulogne.” 
“You can’t think how impatient I am to begin! Every¬ 
thing inspires me! Everything seems to give me ideas— 
even a place like this. It’s so—so raw—so delightfully 
real!” 

Martin paused in the act of lighting a cigarette to 
answer me. 

“It’s tawdry really,” he said, “and cheap. You mustn’t 
be misled by the novelty of a thing into thinking it’s 
what it isn’t.” 

I shook my head. 

“I don’t think I am,” I protested. “In a way it’s 
the tawdriness that fascinates me. You see I don’t aim 
at becoming a great stylist—saying pretty things prettily. 
After all there’s no soul in that sort of thing, no ‘meat’ 


SPILLED WINE 


33 


as my American friend would say. I want just to take 
the lid off and serve the stew up hot, with all its natural 
ingredients. Yes, that's what I want to do. Most writers 
waste far too much time laying the table." 

Although I was not looking at him, I knew he was 
regarding me with his usual flattering attention. I knew 
also that he was pleating his brows in the little puzzled 
way he had. 

“Pm always wondering," he commented at length, 
“what it is that makes you say the sort of things you 
do. It’s not just for effect I feel sure. You’re too much 
in earnest. I never thought of life as a ‘stew’ before." 

“But isn’t it?" I flashed. 

“In a sense I suppose it is. Yes, now I come to think 
of it it’s really quite a good metaphor—though not ele¬ 
gant." 

“Oh, elegant!" I cried impatiently. “What a conven¬ 
tional word! It expresses everything I want to avoid. 
You see," I went on eagerly, “life is so jolly and vivid 
and—and adventurous, and I’m so afraid of losing the 
thrill of it, of degenerating into something dull and stereo¬ 
typed and commonplace. That’s why I’m so impatient 
to begin, to get all my impressions down before they’ve 
had time to run into grooves and get set!" 

“Nothing you do will ever be that," said Martin. 

“How can I be sure?" I demanded. 

“By just being—you." 

“That’s flattering but not convincing." 

“Because you don’t realize yourself, your possibilities, 
your aliveness, as I do. You can’t get outside and see 
yourself." 


34 


SPILLED WINE 


He was leaning a little towards me. His whole face 
glowed with enthusiasm. 

“If ever anyone had the stamp of success, you have,” 
he said. “You give one the impression of some internal, 
irresistible force driving you on. Whatever you make 
up your mind to do you’ll do—never fear.” 

I pushed away my empty coffee cup, planted my 
elbows upon the table and let my gaze travel restlessly 
over the crowded room with its soiled pink lamp-shades 
and smoke-filled atmosphere. Then, with a little sigh, 
it came back again to the pale oval of Martin’s face. 

“If only one could be sure!” I repeated. 

During my last summer holiday from Kingsmead, the 
one immediately prior to my seventeenth birthday, 
Martin and I arranged to take a week’s holiday together. 

An old aunt of my mother’s, with whom I had some¬ 
times stayed during my early childhood, had a small 
cottage near Hindhead in Surrey, and here it was ar¬ 
ranged I should stay whilst Martin put up at a neigh¬ 
bouring inn. 

How poignantly vivid the atmosphere of that holiday 
comes back to me as I write! 

It was glorious weather, a hot sun all day with scented, 
crystalline mornings and cool, exquisite twilights. We 
made a point of getting up very early before the heat of 
the sun had taken the earth into its voluptuous embrace 
and, packing our saddle-baskets with provisions for the 
day, we would set off upon long, aimless, happy rambles. 

We seldom followed any particular course of direction. 
We just turned into any leafy lane that fancy might 
suggest and accepted the results with thankful hearts. 


SPILLED WINE 


35 

During the hottest hours we would laze in some secluded 
dell or by the shady bank of some clear-running stream, 
content to let the world drift by in indolent serenity. 
Sometimes, for long minutes together, we would lie and 
dream in mutual silence, while butterflies hovered like 
animated jewels in the quivering air and all the myriad 
voices of a drowsy summer’s day hummed pleasantly in 
our ears. 

For six days we ate the lotus buds of pure content. 

From the point of view of actual happenings it was a 
very uneventful holiday. Certain trifling incidents stand 
out in my memory with special clearness, though when I 
come to analyse them separately I cannot imagine why 
they should do so. 

For instance I remember riding one evening along the 
crest of a hill between fields of blood-red poppies. I 
think the sun must have been setting in front of us, for I 
have an impression of riding in a great glow of crimson 
light. Everything seemed stained with red, the sky, the 
fields, the very dust in the road, and I was wearing a pink 
cotton dress of a particularly deep shade. Suddenly 
Martin looked at me and at the same moment he uttered 
a little cry of wonderment. 

“You look as if you were on fire!” he cried. “As 
though you were riding through flames! I wish I could 
paint you. What a picture you’d make! There’s a sort 
of unearthly radiance about you—and a great beauty! 
I never knew you could look like that!” 

The road dipped presently between clumps of stately 
trees towards the lowlands, and within a few minutes we 
had exchanged the glory of the hill for the sober shadows 
of the valley. For a long while I rode in silence won- 


36 - SPILLED WINE 

dering what it was that had so suddenly and oddly 
excited me. . . . 

I remember an afternoon when we got caught in a 
violent thunder-storm and had to take refuge in a very 
small quaint church. I don’t remember the name of the 
church or where it was, but I remember that it con¬ 
tained a magnificently carved wooden screen, some really 
beautiful stained glass and several curious old paintings, 
and that, incidentally, it started us on a lengthy and very 
interesting discussion on religion. . . . 

I remember wading into a pond to pick a water-lily 
and Martin wiping my bare feet with his handkerchief 
and telling me that it was the first time he had ever 
realized that feet could be beautiful. . . . 

I remember sitting in the shadow of a haystack and 
reading a couple of poems I had composed during the 
previous term and Martin remarking, “But I thought 
you didn’t believe in love!” . . . 

I remember endless disjointed scraps of conversation 
. . . and scenes we looked at together. . . . 

For the rest the recollection of those first six days is 
no more than a brief dream of rustic tranquillity. 

On the last evening of the holiday we sat upon the 
western slope of the Devil’s Punchbowl—not far from 
the famous gibbet upon which three sailors are reputed 
to have been hanged—and talked until the sun went 
down and the stars came out. 

As we sat upon the hill-side, our backs to a gorse bush, 
our hands playing idly with the ripe whortleberries that 
grew all about us, Martin’s conversation gradually took 


SPILLED WINE 


37 

on a more intimate tone. A note of wistfulness crept 
into his voice. 

“Supposing,” he began suddenly, after a rather long 
pause during which I had been dreamily watching the 
shadows lengthen in the valley below, “supposing I 
were to go away—right away—abroad I mean—for a 
long time—possibly three years—would you mind very 
much? I mean would you miss me?” 

I brought my gaze back from the shimmering, opales¬ 
cent distances and looked at him with surprise. 

“What a thing to ask!” I said. “Of course I should 
miss you.” 

And then something about the expression of his face, 
the searching, anxious look in his eyes, arrested me, 
made me realize that the question was serious. 

“But why do you ask?” I went on hurriedly. “You 
aren’t thinking of—of doing anything of the kind, are 
you?” 

He leant forward, clasped his arms about his hunched 
knees and deliberately looked away from me. 

“Well—as a matter of fact I was—am,” he answered 
with slow emphasis. “There’s nothing definite, only a 
bare chance, a possibility. I haven’t liked to mention 
it before, I—I was afraid it might spoil our holiday. 
But this evening—our last before we go back to London 
—I suddenly felt I must tell you.” 

“Must tell me what?” 

I was sitting bolt upright. My heart seemed to have 
slowed down as though a heavy hand had suddenly been 
laid upon it. 

“Tell me what?” I repeated. “Martin, Martin, what 
is it you’re going to do?” 


38 


SPILLED WINE 


For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then: 

“You know Madame Sabarini: I mean you’ve heard 
her sing?” he began. “Well, I’ve met her several times 
lately. She was at Bateman’s the evening before we came 
away. She’s planning a world tour, a concert party you 
know, rather an elaborate affair, and she—well, she as 
good as suggested that I should be one of them. I’d been 
playing to her; I accompanied her in a cycle of old 
Spanish love songs, and I could see she was pleased. She 
talked to me a lot during the evening and then, just as 
she was going, she suggested it—in rather an off-hand 
sort of way. I don’t know whether she really meant it 
or not. In any case she may have forgotten all about it 
by now—but she seemed quite serious at the time. In 
fact she asked me to go and see her next Friday after¬ 
noon—at the Savoy Hotel. . . . That’s all!” 

“That’s all?” 

I don’t know what the tones of my voice must have 
conveyed to him, but he jerked his head round quite 
suddenly, and then I saw that his eyes were deeply 
troubled and that his whole face had a strained, unhappy 
look. 

“I—I suppose you think I ought to have told you 
before,” he said. “But you see—it’s only a possibility. 
There’s nothing settled.” 

“I don’t care. You ought to have told me,” I declared, 
and thrust the hair back from my face with hot, im¬ 
petuous hands. “If it had been me—I should have told 
you.” 

He was silent for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “if I’ve made you angry.” 

“I’m not angry, but you ought to have told me.” 



SPILLED WINE 


39 


“It may come to nothing.” 

“But you hope it will?” 

“I—don’t know. I hardly know what to hope. In a 
way, of course it ’ud be splendid, the most wonderful 
thing that could happen to me! Think of it! A world 
tour! Canada, the United States, South America, Aus¬ 
tralia, Africa, India! And I’ve always longed to travel! 
... It ’ud be a good thing from every point of view 
Anything might come of it—anything! Why, it’s a 
chance in a thousand! A million!” 

He turned again and looked at me, almost defiantly, 
I thought, as though he challenged me to contradict him, 
and as I stared back at him a sudden extraordinary feel¬ 
ing of resentment sprang up in me. 

t I think I had looked upon Martin up to that moment 
as a sort of fixture in my life, some one who would 
always be there and always unchanged. I had never 
imagined a future in which he did not play a prominent 
part and here he was calmly suggesting he should go 
away for three years. It almost seemed that he contem¬ 
plated doing me a personal injury and that he was pleased 
to do it, that he was actually looking forward to such a 
separation. 

As I sat there staring blankly out at the purpling 
distances, something belonging to my childhood fell def¬ 
initely away from me. I wrote “finis” to the first period 
of my adolescence. 

It seemed a long time before I compelled myself to 
answer, in a voice which I scarcely recognized as my own. 

“And you’ve decided to take it—this Chance in a 
million’—if it comes?” 

He looked away from me, tightening his clasp about 


4 o SPILLED WINE 

his knees, hunching his shoulders in an odd, defensive 
way. 

“I haven’t made up my mind,” he said. “I wanted 
to see what you thought about it. . . . Of course, in a 
way, I should hate to go. I should miss you—unbear¬ 
ably.” 

“But would you? Oh, Martin, do you think you really 
would—when you once got away?” 

“Ann, my dear, how can you ask such a question?” 

Almost roughly he put his two hands upon my shoul¬ 
ders and pulled me towards him. I saw the pulses throb 
in his temples. I felt his whole body quiver. 

“It’s only you could keep me back—nothing else. 
You’ve got right into my life somehow. You’ve come 
to seem like a part of myself. I can’t imagine getting 
on without you—and yet—if it came—this wonderful 
chance—wouldn’t it be madness to let it slip? Why I 
might wait all my life and never get such another. If 
only Sabarini takes a fancy to me-” 

“Oh! Sabarini!” I cried, and tore myself furiously 
from his clasp. “Fat, ugly thing! And I don’t think 
her singing so very wonderful either—at least—well, no 
better than lots of others,” I ended rather feebly, my 
sense of justice struggling hard with an unreasoning 
storm of jealousy. 

“She’s generally considered to be one of our finest 
contraltos,” Martin pleaded almost apologetically. “And 
you raved over her yourself when I took you to ‘Geron- 
tius.’ ” 

“I know, I’m a pig, a spiteful pig,” I confessed, my 
anger vanishing at the sight of his obvious distress. “It’s 
just that I’m angry with her for threatening to take you 




SPILLED WINE 41 

away. However could I get on without you—for three 
whole years?” 

He nodded and his face clouded. 

“I know, it’s rotten, that part of it. I wish you could 
come too. Wouldn’t it be splendid—we two—seeing the 
world?” 

For a while we permitted ourselves to romance along 
these lines; then, reluctantly, we came back to the dis¬ 
cussion of practical realities. And the more we talked 
the more clear it became to me that he must accept 
Sabarini’s offer, must do everything in his power to make 
it an accomplished fact. 

“You’re right,” I admitted. “Anything may come of 
it—simply anything. It may be the beginning of great 
things, the first step to fame! At the very least it’ll be 
a wonderful experience. Martin dear, I was a little 
beast to say what I did just now. Of course you must 
go. There couldn’t be two opinions on the subject.” 

He smiled a trifle cheerlessly. 

“You seem to think it rests with me.” 

“It does. It does.” 

“You don’t know these singers—full of whims and 
fancies. She may have forgotten my existence by now.” 

“And she may not. You mustn’t let yourself think 
she has. Fix your mind on success and you’ll get it. 
Don’t I always say that?” 

“But in this case, unfortunately, I can’t make up my 
mind whether I want it or not. Part of me does and 
part of me doesn’t. It’s the thought of leaving you that’s 
so rotten.” 

In silence we looked at one another and as we did 
so a strange chill sadness stole over me. The brightness 


42 


SPILLED WINE 


died out of the sky and I shivered. Putting out my hand 
I touched his coat sleeve—began to pluck at the rough 
tweed with restless fingers. 

“It ’ud be just as rotten for me,” I blundered miser¬ 
ably. “I can’t think how I’d get on without you. No 
one to talk to, to discuss things with, to just be there 
when I wanted them. Oh, Martin, if you do go, what 
ever shall I do? It’s too dreadful to think about.” 

He pulled up a piece of grass by the roots and began 
to tear it savagely to pieces. 

“D’you think I haven’t thought of all that?” he an¬ 
swered jerkily. “Why, I’ve thought of nothing else these 
last few days, all the time we’ve been riding together 
and talking together—and being happy. I’ve been saying 
to myself, ‘Is it worth it? Shan’t I lose more than I’ll 
gain, something more precious than anything I’ll ever 
find again in all the wide world, something sweeter than 
success and adventure and—and fame even?’ ” 

Suddenly, with an impatient gesture, he threw away 
the piece of grass, and turning, looked with pleading, 
piteous fixity into my eyes. 

“Ann dear, you’ve been the best, the truest, the most 
wonderful pal a man ever had. I’ll never again find any¬ 
one half as splendid. Am I a fool, I wonder, to risk 
losing you?” 

Something in the tones of his voice, something entirely 
different from anything that I had ever heard in them 
before, overwhelmed me with an indescribable rush of 
emotion. I wanted to speak, but I could not. I could 
only slide my fingers down his sleeve and take hold of his 
hand with a little understanding clasp. 

As though my touch had fired some instinct in the 


SPILLED WINE 


43 

secret depths of his nature, he suddenly bent his head 
and kissed my wrist. He kissed it several times, hur¬ 
riedly, fiercely, as though impelled by some blind, be¬ 
wildered impulse. Then, with a sort of startled jerk, he 
raised his head and a look of intense embarrassment 
spread slowly over his features. 

I think his action had surprised himself even more than 
it surprised me. 

From that moment a new element was added to our 
relationship. Something had stirred within us, some dor¬ 
mant instinct of sex that could never be put entirely to 
sleep again. 

When, presently, we cycled back along the smooth 
white road to Hindhead it was in a mood of unusual 
reticence, as though each was deliberately hiding some¬ 
thing from the other. 

All about us the valleys swam with opalescent tints of 
blue and mauve and pearly grey, whilst overhead the 
stars pricked one by one through the bell-like dome of a 
sapphire sky. Little by little the whole country-side 
assumed an air of veiled and lovely mystery. The scents 
of unseen flowers trailed faintly like gossamer scarves 
through the still air. The soft purr of our wheels sang 
a steady rhythm in the powdery dust. 

We rode the whole of the way in silence. 


CHAPTER IV 


W E returned to London on the fourteenth of July. 

For five days I saw nothing of Martin. I 
moped about the house in a state of peculiar restlessness. 
I could not read or settle to any work. I seemed filled 
with a fretful impatience that I could neither understand 
nor control. 

On the fifth evening Martin came. 

I saw at once that he was greatly changed. He looked 
ill and pale and his whole face seemed stamped with a 
great unhappiness. 

As I walked beside him over the lawn and along the 
newly gravelled paths of the garden I became aware of a 
strange awkwardness. It was as though a barrier had 
been reared between us, cutting off the easy interchange 
of our thoughts, stimulating an odd emotional interest 
that had not been there before. I found myself thinking 
of him as though he were a stranger. I found myself 
being curious about him. And several times I caught 
him looking at me in a new way, a puzzled, anxious way, 
as though he were wrestling with some problem that 
refused to be answered. 

And all the while he talked in fitful jerky sentences 
that seemed purposely designed to hide his real thoughts. 

“I’ve seen Sabarini,” he told me at length, as we 
passed under an arch of full-blown ramblers that were 
shedding their petals in red clusters upon the yellow 

44 


SPILLED WINE 


45 


path. “There’s nothing definitely settled yet—but she 
still talks as though she means me to go. ... I played 
to her for nearly two hours yesterday afternoon. . . . 
I think she’s satisfied. ... It seems the violinist she had 
already engaged has dropped out—and the party’s to 
sail about the second week in September.” 

“The second week in September!” A frisson of dis¬ 
may swept over me. Unconsciously I began to walk 
faster. “That leaves you only six weeks—from now.” 

“I know. It seems very little time. I hadn’t realized 
it would be so soon.” 

“But Martin—six weeks! And we’re going away for 
August! That’ll leave us about a fortnight together.” 
Impulsively I caught at his arm, my sense of embarrass¬ 
ment melting under the shock of acute distress. “I can’t 
realize it. I can’t believe it’s true. And for three years, 
three whole years! Oh, Martin, Martin, what ever shall 
I do!” 

“I know. It’s awful. At first I—I didn’t know it 
would be—like this. ... Of course I could still back 
out if I wanted to.” 

“No, no! Oh, no! You mustn’t do that! You 
couldn’t.” 

For several moments we walked on in silence, our 
feet falling noiselessly on the soft gravel. Then I began 
again: 

“To think when I come home at Christmas—for good 
—you won’t be here! I shall miss you horribly mo r 
than if I were at school.” 

With his eyes fixed on the ground before him, Mart- 
nodded. 



SPILLED WINE 


46 

“Yes, I’ve thought of that/’ he said. “But you’ll have 
your work. You’ll be busy.” 

“And I was so looking forward to being able to read 
my things over to you.” 

“You must send me copies—always. I shall love to 
read everything you do. . . . And we can write to each 
other.” 

“But, Martin dear, writing isn’t the same, it couldn’t 
ever be the same as really having you!” 

I tightened my hold on his arm. There were tears in 
my voice and in my eyes, and as he turned and looked 
at me I saw his whole face twitch in a sort of agony 
of self-control. 

“My little girl, my dear little Ann,” he murmured. 
“I know just how you’re feeling. But we’ve got to be 
sensible—and brave. If I only thought of myself—if I 

let myself go-!” He stopped abruptly and seemed 

to shake himself like a dog shaking a wet coat. A glazed 
look came into his eyes. His mouth set in a hard un¬ 
natural line. “But there’s you—and your future. I’ve 
got to think of you. You’re no ordinary girl. You’ve 
got to be given the best opportunity to develop to the 
fullest. Nothing must interfere with that. ... If only 
I could feel sure that nothing will! . . . It’s leaving you 
to—to chance as it were, that’s so damnable. Other men 
may come—are bound to come—and they won’t under¬ 
stand. That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

“You needn’t be afraid,” I said. “There’ll never be 
anyone to take your place—never.” 

He looked at me long and searchingly, and his eyes 
were very tender. They seemed to brood over me and 
caress me. They seemed to dip down into my very 



SPILLED WINE 


47 

soul and drink like a thirsty man at a well. They 
reminded me of the look that had been in them when 
he kissed my wrist. 

“I wasn’t thinking of—friendship,” he answered very 
slowly. “You’re nearly seventeen. Very soon you’ll be 
a woman. Already, in some ways, you’re much older 
than your years.” 

A vague embarrassment disturbed me. Turning away 
from him I reached up to pick a rose that swung gently 
in the evening breeze. 

“If you mean—my getting married,” I faltered, “you 
needn’t worry because I don’t intend to. My writing 
will take up all my time. It’s a career I want—not a 
husband.” 

“You say that now.” 

“I shall always say it.” 

“But how can you know? Heaps of girls have said it 
before and changed their minds.” 

“And supposing I did. Would it matter very much?” 

With a little forced laugh I threaded the stem of the 
rose through the buttonhole of his coat. Then, deliber¬ 
ately, I looked up into his face and smiled. 

“Surely,” I teased, “you’re not jealous—of some myth¬ 
ical person who doesn’t exist?” 

“Jealous!” He caught my two hands in his, gripping 
them so fiercely that a ring which I wore bit deeply 
into my flesh. “Jealous! Ann—if you knew what you’re 
saying.” 

The pain in my fingers was so sharp that I winced and 
instantly he saw the cause and released me. 

“I’ve hurt you! Oh, my dear, I’ve hurt you!” he 
cried, and his voice shook with distress. “I’m a fool 


SPILLED WINE 


48 

and a brute and I don’t know what I’m saying. But I 
wouldn’t hurt you for the world. Oh, you know I 
wouldn’t—forgive me!” 

And then, with an abruptness that startled me, he 
swung upon his heel and walked quickly away towards 
the house. 

He came three times during the following week and 
each time he seemed carefully to avoid being alone with 
me. He talked elaborately upon commonplace topics, 
steering the conversation clear of any suggestion of 
special intimacy. And all the while he gave me an im¬ 
pression that he was afraid of something, that he was 
putting some violent check upon himself. And all the 
while I knew that he was desperately unhappy. 

On the occasion of his third visit he told me that his 
contract with Madame Sabarini had been signed. 

“Everything’s settled now,” he said. “We sail on the 
fourteenth of September—unless Sabarini gets a cable 
from her agent in Toronto making it the seventh.” 

I nodded dully. 

We were seated by the open dining-room window look¬ 
ing out towards the street. Behind us my mother was 
busily sorting linen for the family’s approaching summer 
holiday. 

The world seemed suddenly a very bleak and dreary 
place. Precious moments were slipping by, but I could 
do nothing to stay them, nothing to relieve the agony of 
vague distress that tortured me. I wanted to put my 
head on Martin’s shoulder and cry, but I knew that such 
a thing was out of the question. I felt years older than 
during that wonderful week among the Surrey hills. I 


SPILLED WINE 


49 


felt as though I had come to the end of some pleasant, 
familiar road, as though a door were closing behind me, 
thrusting me inexorably out into a gaping blackness. 

An intense shyness had grown up in me, a reserve 
which, try as I would, I could not explain to myself. I 
could only sit there and stare dumbly at Martin, wonder¬ 
ing what had come over me and why it was that the 
thought of his going should fill me with such a heavy, 
nameless pain. 

On the evening before we went away he brought his 
violin to the house and played to me. 

Curled on a sofa at one end of the big, double drawing¬ 
room I lay and listened, conscious every now and then 
that tears were in my eyes and a queer choking feeling 
in my throat. 

Slowly the long summer evening melted into twilight. 
Shadows filled the room until I could distinguish nothing 
clearly, until Martin’s pale face and white hands were 
like swaying phantoms in the faint light from one of the 
windows. 

On and on he played, weaving a web of haunting love¬ 
liness that snared my senses like a witch’s spell. And as 
I listened I seemed to lose touch with my surroundings, 
with all things material, to swing out into some dim, 
immeasurable obscurity, lapped about with little spark¬ 
ling waves of purest sound. . . . 

When it was quite dark Martin stopped playing and 
came and sat beside me on the couch. I could hear him 
breathing, little quick breaths as though he had been 
running. For several moments neither spoke; then: 

“What was it you were playing?” I asked. “I don’t 
seem to remember having heard it before.” 


50 


SPILLED WINE 


“No,” Martin answered. “It’s something I’ve just 
composed. I’m going to call it ‘Ann.’ ” 

“ ‘Ann’? You mean you’ve—dedicated it to me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you. It’s very beautiful. It made me think 
of all sorts of strange things—of flying like a bird through 
cool, quivering air into a sky that had no end—of being 
the only thing alive in a great desert of space—and being 
glad! I think I shall always remember it.” 

“I’ll write it down for the piano and send you a copy,” 
he said. 

I thanked him and presently, without one word having 
been spoken to reveal the storm of suppressed emotion 
that was gathering between us, he got up and went away. 

I have always disliked English seaside places. To me 
they represent the acme of smug bourgeois vulgarity, 
their objectionableness increasing in ratio to their popu¬ 
larity. 

I hated that Margate holiday of 1907 more than I can 
possibly describe. 

The weather was stiflingly hot, the town itself noisy, 
over-crowded, “trippery,” thoroughly detestable. I 
thought of Martin and those six delightful days amongst 
the rustic loveliness of Surrey lanes and my heart grew 
sick with longing and disgust. In so short a while he 
would be gone, thousands of miles would divide us, and 
here was I compelled to waste even the few weeks that 
might have remained to us! 

As far as possible I avoided the town, preferring to 
wander away by myself along the more deserted parts of 
the shore. The monotony of the sea depressed me, but 


SPILLED WINE 51 

I found it less irritating than the company of other 
people. 

I wrote to Martin almost daily, short, scribbled notes 
that were like brief, imploring cries from a heart that 
suffered and knew not why. His replies were somewhat 
similar, alternately delighting and baffling me. 

“You complain,” he wrote, “that my letters are ‘full of 
words,’ and yet say so little. Dear, if you could look 
into my heart you would understand! Friendships such 
as ours do not often occur—and when they do they 
have to be paid for. Something like this was bound to 
happen sooner or later. We couldn’t have gone on in¬ 
definitely without a separation. P’raps it’s just as well 
that it has come now—while I still have strength to go 
—while you are still so young. You see I’m always 
thinking of your future. Something seems to tell me 
that there are great things ahead of you—and not for 
worlds would I spoil anything. It would be so easy, 
just at this stage, to do you an irreparable injury. I like 
to think of you as a very rare plant that will one day 
astonish the world with its beauty. ...” 

And again: 

“You talk of ‘time crawling.’ To me it seems to rush 
by like an express train, eating up my last few weeks in 
England. P’raps after all it was best that you had to 
go away. Every sight of you is a temptation. You can’t 
guess what a fight it was—screwing up my courage to 
sign the contract at the last moment. It was the thought 
of what you would think—if I didn’t—that made me 
do it. You are so scornful of cowards, moral cowards 
especially. D’you remember that discussion we once had 
about the possibility of a murderer being a brave man? 


52 


SPILLED WINE 


You never have looked at things from conventional stand¬ 
points. You’re always so full of surprises. You seem to 
see things that other people miss. Which makes me 
wonder what sort of books you’ll write! ...” 

And again: 

“I’m very busy all day with preparations. There’s so 
much to be got—clothes for all climates. . . . I’ve met the 
rest of the concert party—there will be five of us alto¬ 
gether—and so far I reserve my judgment. There’s a 
pianist, a middle-aged, bald-headed man, who may turn 
out rather a decent sort. . . . London’s dreadfully hot. 
We simply stew all day. How hateful it all seems after 
that glorious week in the country! I miss you terribly, 
more than I can possibly express. You’d make any con¬ 
ditions bearable—no, not bearable—delightful! . . . Ann, 
dearest of pals, I know my letters are rotten, but some¬ 
how I simply can’t write as I would like to. I feel 
thrilled and excited and desperately miserable all at the 
same time. I keep on thinking of that last talk together 
at Hindhead. . . . P’raps when I see you again I’ll be 
able to explain—just a little. You’re so wonderful at 
understanding. What a wonderful woman you’ll make! 
I’d like to feel I was going to know you all my life— 
right to the very end. I begrudge every moment apart 
from you. I envy every one who will get to know you 
while I’m away. One thing is certain—no one will ever 
appreciate you more than I. I’ve often told you how 
much your friendship has meant to me, but I don’t think 
you will ever entirely understand! . . 

I read these letters over many times. In a way they 
differed from anything that Martin had previously writ¬ 
ten to me. An undercurrent of intensity seemed to run 


SPILLED WINE 


S3 

like a live wire through even the most commonplace 
sentences. Often as I read I had a vision of him turning 
away from me in the garden. I saw the dumb self¬ 
wonderment in his eyes, the passionate self-denial on 
his tightened lips. 

And I wondered. 

It was a gala night. 

A water carnival had been held during the day, and 
now that darkness had fallen coloured lights festooned 
the pier, glowing like jewels against the violet sky, drip¬ 
ping like fiery paint into the crawling water beneath. 

A confetti battle was in progress, and a great throng 
of merry-makers surged wildly to and fro, laughing, 
shouting, skirmishing, smothering one another with 
showers of coloured papers. 

It was an ideal summer night, and the beauty of it 
caught at my heart as I sat listening to the swaying 
sensuous music of the band. In spite of the all-envelop¬ 
ing sadness of my mood I was keenly alive to the sugges¬ 
tion of romance that pressed around me. I found myself 
looking at the scene from the point of view of the novelist 
storing away impressions for future use. 

“It’s like a scene out of a musical comedy!” I thought. 
“There’s a glamour about it, a sort of Bacchanal joie de 
vivre that isn’t easy to analyse. . . . It’s like a conjurer 
doing tricks. It provokes an atmosphere of emotional 
excitement out of the simple properties of darkness, 
coloured lights, music. It creates mystery! All these 
people one sees for a moment in swift flashes—that laugh¬ 
ing girl with her hat off and her hair full of confetti— 
they all seem, somehow, interesting—fascinating! But 


SPILLED WINE 


54 

in the daylight they’d be commonplace enough. . . . It’s 
all due, I suppose, to a sort of unconscious self-deception 
* —not seeing things clearly. Probably all life’s the same. 
For instance—Martin! P’raps I’m a fool to trouble so 
much about him going. In a year or two’s time I may 
look back and wonder why I did. . . . Life’s bound to 
be full of similar experiences. One ought to get used to 
them. One ought not to let one’s feelings get the upper 
hand. . . .” 

It was the fourth week of the holiday. Very soon now 
I should be returning to London and Martin, yet the 
fact did not greatly cheer me. By now I had begun to 
realize that the barrier between us was more than a mere 
matter of distance. 

Again and again the remembrance of his face as he 
kissed my wrist flashed before me in the semi-darkness, 
and each time a feeling of hot excitement rushed up in me. 

“He seemed different—somehow!” I marvelled. “Not 
the Martin I’ve always known. And ever since there’s 
been something odd about him. Even his letters are dif¬ 
ferent. They aren’t so frank. They seem to be hiding 
something!” 

The band began to play the Merry Widow waltz, and 
instantly my thoughts went back to the afternoon when 
we had seen the play together. A fresh wave of unhappi¬ 
ness swept over me. 

“Oh, Martin dear,” I almost moaned. “However 
much I pretend, it won’t be the same, it won’t be ever the 
same without you! . . . Must you go? Must you? . . . 
I want you so dreadfully. I-” 

“Ann!” 

Into the light of a pink lantern a figure had stepped 



SPILLED WINE 


55 


out of the crowd and confronted me. I felt my hands 
caught in a sudden fierce clasp. The next moment I was 
staring amazedly into Martin’s face. 

“Ann! Ann! Oh, my dear, at last I’ve found you!” 
he cried, and even through the music of the band I 
caught a sound like a sob in his throat. “I thought I 
never should, I was getting desperate. It was like a 
nightmare—all these people—pushing and jostling. But 
I’ve got you now. Thank God, I’ve got you now!” 

He spoke in quick breathless gasps and as I examined 
his face I was amazed at the expression I saw there. He 
looked years older. His eyes had a reckless look; his 
mouth seemed drawn up into little lines of agony; his 
whole attitude betrayed a wild impatience that amazed 
me. 

“Martin!” I exclaimed. “How you startled me! 
Where have you come from? I didn’t know-” 

With a gesture almost of command he silenced me. 

“I must talk to you,” he said. “Something has hap¬ 
pened. Please come away from all this.” 

“But-” 

“Please dear, don’t! Don’t ask me anything. I’ll ex¬ 
plain in a moment. If only we can get out of this ghastly 
crowd. I’ve been looking for you for ages.” 

In a flash the scene about me had become garish, ugly, 
stifling. I was as anxious as Martin to escape from it. 
Without hesitation I put a hand through his arm and 
turned to follow him. 

“We’ll go anywhere—anywhere you like,” I stam¬ 
mered, wondering at the sudden feeling of faintness that 
had come over me. 

As we made our way through the crowd, the lights 




SPILLED WINE 


56 

seemed to reel fantastically about us. The laughter and 
shouts of the revellers were like the senseless screeching 
of parrots. 

We walked in silence. It seemed ages before we had 
left the last straggling fringe of the crowd behind us. 

We were on the beach now. The soft swish of our 
feet in the sand mingled with the rhythmic lap of little 
waves. From an ever-widening distance the dreamy har¬ 
monies of the band came floating to us through the 
summer darkness. 

And presently, quite close to the water’s edge, on sand 
still damp from the recent tide, we sat down together. 

Even then Martin did not at once begin to speak. For 
a while he played nervously with my hands, his long, 
slim fingers stroking my wrists and bare forearms. Then 
suddenly he burst out: 

“I don’t know what you’ll think of me—coming down 
here—like this! To begin with I had a wire from Saba- 
rini’s manager this morning saying that the party’s to 
sail at once—next Saturday!” 

“Next Saturday!” My voice was no more than a 
whisper. Dismay seemed to rob me of the power of 
articulate speech. 

“But—why it’s Wednesday already! That leaves you 
only three days—two really!” 

“I know. That’s why I’ve come. I just dashed out 
and caught the first train. I’ve been nearly two hours 
looking for you. I thought I’d never find you. I was 
getting frantic!” 

Instinctively my fingers tightened on his. 

“Poor Martin!” I said. “And I was just sitting there 


SPILLED WINE 


57 

all the time—staring at that stupid crowd—and thinking 
of you.” 

“The trouble is, I’ve got to return to London to-night. 
I’ve left everything in a hopeless muddle, and I’ve got 
two important appointments to-morrow morning. But 
—but Ann, darling, I couldn’t go away without seeing 
you again, without telling you something I’ve been long¬ 
ing to tell you ever since that last evening together on 
the hills. Darling, dearest little girl—I love you! I 
love you! ... I didn’t mean to tell you—but I can’t help 
myself. If it’s wrong I don’t care; I’ve got past caring. 
If you knew what agonies I’ve suffered, what a dreadful 
fight it’s been, how I haven’t slept for thinking of you 
—longing for you! Oh, my dear! My sweet! My dar¬ 
ling little girl! Let me love you—just this once—just 
to-night! Let me take away the memory of one little 
hour of perfect happiness!” 

Impulsively he put his arms about me, holding me 
gently, yet passionately against him. And with a little 
sigh I laid my head on his shoulder, conscious of a sudden 
ineffable contentment, conscious that the barrier between 
us had utterly gone. 

“Martin dear! Martin dear!” I murmured. 

“Did you guess, I wonder?” he went on eagerly. “It 
seems now as if you must have known—and yet the 
strange part is that I didn’t know myself—until that 
evening. I suppose it must have been there all the time, 
but I didn’t realize it. I’d always thought of you as 
such a child—and then, when I came to talk of leaving 
you, I suddenly saw you in a new light. You became a 
wonderful Girl-Woman. The old ‘Ann’ vanished and a 
new ‘Ann’ took her place. And she’s haunted me ever 


SPILLED WINE 


58 

since. That’s why I haven’t been able to write to you 
properly. There was only one thing I wanted to say— 
I love you! I love you! I love you! And I couldn’t 
say it. I felt I oughtn’t to say it. You’re so young! 
It isn’t fair! . . . But now I’ve said it' and you must 
forgive me.” 

He shifted his position so that my head slipped for¬ 
ward upon his breast. I felt the breath from his lips 
stir my ruffled hair. 

“I don’t suppose you can understand all I’m trying 
to say,” he went on. “But one day—you’ll know. It’s 
heaven and hell in one. It’s the greatest happiness and 
the cruellest pain. But I wouldn’t have it otherwise. 
Even to have held you just once—in my arms—like this 
—has been worth while. ... I thought at first I’d be 
strong enough to go away without telling you. But when 
that wire came and I felt myself being torn away from 

you- Oh, my darling, it seemed that nothing in all 

the world mattered but to get to you.” 

He bent his head until his cheek touched mine. The 
scent of his breath was in my nostrils now. 

“You needn’t take any notice. You needn’t let it make 
any difference to you. I don’t expect it to. I’m not fool 
enough to suppose that you could love me in return— 
not in the way I mean. Even if you offered it, I wouldn’t 
take it—because I’d know there might come a time when 
you’d be sorry. You’ve given me friendship, the sweet¬ 
est friendship a man ever had, and I don’t ask anything 
more. All I wanted was just to tell you. After all, what 
harm can it do? In years to come it may even give you 
pleasure—to know that when you were sixteen a man 
loved you and laid his soul at your feet. Whatever the 



SPILLED WINE 59 

future may hold no one will ever be able to say more 
than that—no one!” 

I can’t attempt to describe my feelings as I sat there 
on the deserted beach and listened to this first love-speech 
of my first lover. All the sentient emotions that had 
been blindly shaping within me during the past month 
seemed suddenly to materialize, to break extravagantly 
into bloom. I didn’t ask myself “Am I in love?” I 
only knew that a strange excitement possessed me, that 
my whole body was trembling as though a magic essence 
had been poured into my blood. I wanted to touch and 
be touched, to lose myself in a reckless outpouring of 
this new emotion. Obedient to an irresistible impulse 
I raised my arms and locked them about Martin’s neck. 
My lips groped urgently for his. 

Then the earth melted and the stars were blotted 
out! . . . 

Most of what we said to one another during the next 
hour has completely vanished from my memory. Only 
the essence of the moment remains, the warm, throbbing, 
startled essence of first love. 

In one bound I had become fully, vitally, conscious of 
my sex and the power it had to enslave and enflame the 
sex of this man seated by me in the ardent darkness. 
He was no longer the familiar Martin of my childhood, 
but some wonderful stranger, the Prince Charming who 
had come to rouse me from the dreamless sleep of 
adolescence, to draw me over the threshold of dawning 
womanhood. 

I remember his kisses as a woman invariably remem¬ 
bers the kisses of the man who first lifts for her no 
matter how small a corner of the veil of life’s crowning 


6 o 


SPILLED WINE 


mystery. Judged by the standards of a later and riper 
experience, I suspect that they were not such very won¬ 
derful kisses after all, merely the clumsy satisfaction of 
blind instincts as vague and commonplace as the casual 
matings of newly hatched butterflies. Yet at the time 
they filled me with the rapture of a great passion. All 
thoughts of our approaching separation vanished out of 
my mind. I gave myself up to the happiness of the 
moment without stint or hesitation. . . . 

Two hours later, on the almost deserted promenade, 
we said “good-bye” in anguish and sorrow, yet without 
one pledge, one definite promise or agreement for the 
future having passed between us. 


CHAPTER V 


I CAME home from my last term at Kingsmead filled 
with an earnest determination at once to set about 
the business of fashioning a career for myself. 

My plans for the future were already clear in my 
mind. I meant to work very hard indeed, to tackle life 
with the full force of an unconquerable ambition. I 
meant, whatever the cost, to become a successful writer, 
to carve myself a niche in the temple of literary fame. 
And, without being unduly optimistic as to the probable 
difficulties that awaited me, I had the utmost faith in 
my ultimate success. 

The difficulties I anticipated were not long in present¬ 
ing themselves. If home-life had been uncongenial while 
I was at school, it became very much more so now that 
I was a permanent fixture at Laburnum Villa. In every 
possible way my temperament was at variance with the 
rest of the family; consequently I soon found myself liv¬ 
ing in an atmosphere of perpetual bickering and disagree¬ 
ment. 

From the outset I seemed to be on terms of open hos¬ 
tility with Stephen. By now the latter had developed 
into a conceited, overbearing youth of nineteen who wore 
foppish clothes, went to race-meetings, drank more than 
was good for him, and generally behaved after the con¬ 
ventional traditions of a “young man about town.” 

He was lazy, selfish, ill-mannered, and unprincipled to 

61 


62 


SPILLED WINE 


a degree. He specialized in “ amours” of an incredible 
coarseness and depravity, his taste varying from street 
women to local shop girls. Once, soon after I came home 
for good, a parlour-maid left suddenly under suspicious 
circumstances. He hadn’t even the common decency 
to cover the tracks of his beastliness. Yet in spite of 
everything my parents’ faith in him remained unshaken. 
They found ready excuses for his most flagrant misde¬ 
meanours. 

“After all boys will be boys and ’e’s got ter buy ’is 
experience!” my father would philosophize indulgently. 
“A few wild oats won’t hurt ’im—only make ’im appre¬ 
ciate things all the more later on. And it isn’t as though 
’e’d got ter work. I’ve made a pretty penny meself, 
thank God. Quite enough to keep him comfortable in 
the persition ’e’s been ejercated up to. Oh, he’ll settle 
down all right later on! You’ll see!” 

I’m afraid the “pretty penny” referred to didn’t make 
allowances for gambling debts or the promiscuous enter¬ 
tainment of chorus girls, but this—in his complete igno¬ 
rance of the modern young man’s methods of enjoying 
himself—had not, I think, occurred to my father. 

I don’t believe either he or my mother ever gave a 
thought to myself—financially. Doubtless they took it 
for granted that I should eventually “marry and settle 
down,” and so relieve them of any further responsibility 
in the matter. In fact the truth of this soon became 
glaringly apparent. More than ever I was conscious of 
my position as a sort of interloper in the family circle— 
a “problem” waiting to be solved. It was made clear to 
me that the sooner I set about the important business of 
securing a husband the better pleased every one would be. 


SPILLED WINE 


63 

That a girl might actually desire to earn her own living, 
in preference to allowing some one else to do it for her, 
had not yet taken firm root in the English middle-class 
mind. It was still considered derogatory for a woman to 
work publicly, if by any means she could avoid doing so. 
Consequently the whole trend of my conduct must have 
puzzled and irritated my parents exceedingly. That I 
should prefer to sit scribbling all day long instead of 
going to a tennis party or a matinee, or want to take a 
course of shorthand and typewriting instead of joining a 
dancing class or learning singing, must, I think, have ap¬ 
pealed to my mother as foolish in the extreme. 

“My dear, you’ll never get married if you go on like 
this!” she remonstrated with me on one occasion. “If 
you shut yourself up all day you’ll never have any friends, 
you’ll never even get to know any nice men.” 

To which I replied that I didn’t want to know any and 
that very probably I should never marry. 

“Never marry!” she almost squeaked. “But you 
must, of course you must!” 

“I don’t see why,” I replied, biting the end of my pen¬ 
cil and fidgeting significantly with the notebook on my 
knee. “Every one doesn’t.” 

“Every one who gets the chance does—at least every 
woman. I know you’re not exactly pretty, but that isn’t 
everything. If you’d only take a little more trouble 
with your clothes-” 

I uttered an exclamation of impatience. 

“But I tell you I don’t want to. Men don’t interest 
me.” 

“But what else will you do?” 

“Write.” 



64 


SPILLED WINE 


“Write?” 

“Write books—and short stories and—oh, all sorts of 
things.” 

“But what for?” 

“Because I like doing it for one thing, because I can’t 
help doing it—and incidentally to make money.” 

“I don’t see that you need do that. Your father’s 
quite willing to provide for you until you marry, and 
after that-” 

“But haven’t I explained that I may never marry— 
not for years anyway! I’m not that sort.” 

My mother shook her head and waved her hands with 
a little helpless gesture. 

“My dear, you talk nonsense. Of course we mustn’t 
be in a hurry. I don’t want to press you. You’re only 
very young yet—though I married myself at eighteen— 
but I do want you to see things in a sensible way. It’s 
a girl’s duty to marry. What would our lives be if we 
didn’t?” 

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t be quite interesting. 
Mine will be anyway. I intend it to be. I’d rather be 
a famous novelist than the wife of a—a millionaire any 
day.” 

My mother hesitated, wrinkling her brows for a mo¬ 
ment before she replied. 

“But how d’you know you’ll ever be a novelist at all? 
How d’you know anyone’ll ever print anything you 
write?” 

I shrugged, ever so slightly. 

“I don’t know, of course, but I’m hoping. Other 
people succeed. Why shouldn’t I?” 

“Other people! Oh, well, of course people do—but 



SPILLED WINE 65 

they’re different. I’m sure you’ll only be wasting your 
time, that you’ll be disappointed in the end.” 

I don’t think she had the least intention of being un¬ 
kind, but the stab went home like the thrust of a knife. 
In a flash I saw the precise value the whole family put 
upon my scribblings. 

Without replying I turned my head away and looked 
out of the window. 

“Of course I—I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” my 
mother hastened to amend. “I’m sure you’re quite a 
clever girl—you did very well at school—but to write 
books! Well, somehow, I can’t think you’ll ever do that; 
not books anyone ’ud ever print. I never heard of any¬ 
one else in the family ever doing it—or in your dad’s 
family either.” 

At that I looked round at her quizzically, and I could 
see that it puzzled her greatly to know why I smiled. 

“I dare say, before I’m through, I shall do a great 
many things the family never did before,” I remarked 
cryptically. 

After that, because the sight of me writing or reading 
seemed somehow to irritate the rest of the family, I con¬ 
verted an empty attic into a little private study of my 
own and did my work up there. 

It was a very small attic and after fitting it up with 
a table, a chair, some shelves for my books and a small 
oil stove for use in the cold weather, there was not very 
much room left over. If one stood up suddenly one was 
apt to knock one’s head against the sloping roof; there 
was only one way, a very cramped way, of sitting so as 
to get a good light on the table, and when the wind was 
in a certain direction it was often very draughty; yet 


66 


SPILLED WINE 


all these things were as nothing compared with the ines¬ 
timable boon of privacy. 

I grew to love that little room under the eaves more 
than any other room I have ever possessed. It seemed 
to become part of my very self. When I went into it 
and shut the door it was like going into my own mind 
and shutting out the world. There I evolved the plots 
of my first stories, gave myself up to the first keen pleas¬ 
ure of fictional composition. I was very, very happy. 
Unless you are an artist of some description and can go 
back in memory to your first youthful efforts towards 
self-expression to the moment when, with shining eyes 
and beating heart, you first began to knock upon the 
closed door of success, I cannot hope to make you under¬ 
stand. It is an emotion which has no counterpart. 

I wrote to Martin every week, long enthusiastic letters 
that must have borne faithful witness to the gradual 
development of my character. I told him everything I 
did or planned to do, everything I thought about, every¬ 
thing I desired. Never in any subsequent correspond¬ 
ence have I achieved the naturalness, the spontaneity 
of those letters to Martin. 

“Already,” I wrote, “I find myself settling down into 
a steady stride. I never have the least difficulty in think¬ 
ing out stories. Ideas seem to rush through my mind 
like a flight of birds. The difficulty is to remember them 
all. The one I’m writing now is about China, and I call 
it “The Singing God.” The trouble is I’m always want¬ 
ing to describe places I’ve never seen. It’s so unsatis¬ 
factory having to get one’s ‘local colour’ out of guide 
books, etc. . . . One of the very first things I shall do 


SPILLED WINE 


67 

when I’ve made enough money will be to go for a long 
tour to all the foreign countries I’m most interested in. 
It will be very difficult to choose. I want to see them all 
really. P’raps the best plan would be to spend so many 
months every year travelling! ... I wonder how long 
I shall have to wait before I get anything accepted? Al¬ 
ready I’ve sent out three stories and am working on a 
fourth! I’ve also done some verses. . . . I’m terribly 
impatient—you can’t imagine how impatient! You see 
the family think I’m mad, that in trying to become a 
writer I’m exhibiting signs of harmless lunacy. Nothing 
would astonish them more than that I should actually 
succeed in getting anything into print. Oh, Martin, how 
I long to prove them wrong. ...” 

Martin’s letters to me were full of descriptions of 
places he was visiting, of people he was meeting, of va¬ 
rious adventures that were cropping up in the course of 
the tour. 

“Now that the first wrench of parting from you is 
over,” he wrote, “I am beginning to realize that this 
trip is working wonders for me. Please don’t think that 
I miss you any the less on that account, or that every¬ 
thing I said to you that night at Margate is not still 
entirely and absolutely true—but I’m determined that 
you shall be proud of me and for that reason I’m deter¬ 
mined to get the utmost benefit out of all the wonderful 
experiences which this tour is bringing to me. . . . It’s 
a marvellous education—travelling. It does for one what 
nothing else can do. It seems to turn one inside out— 
tosses one’s deepest convictions on the dust-heap—twists 
one’s sympathies in the oddest ways. What a lot I shall 
have to tell you when I get back! ... I’m glad you’re 




68 


SPILLED WINE 


getting to work. I can understand your impatience. It 
is a divine impatience. Every artist worth his salt has 
felt it. Don’t give in. Don’t let yourself be affected by 
anything that other people may think or say about what 
you are doing. Just grit your teeth and hang on! Suc¬ 
cess will come. It’s only a matter of time and pegging 
away. I’m looking forward almost as anxiously as you 
must be to seeing your first story in print. I expect 
you’ll be a full-blown authoress by the time I get back. 
. . . Three years isn’t so long after all! Nearly seven 
months of it are gone already! . . .” 

I have kept every one of those letters and they make 
delightful reading even now. For nearly three years 
they came to me regularly, without a break, each one 
a solid link in the chain of an unfailing devotion. And 
because of the conscientious manner in which they reply 
to all of mine I find them a tremendous help in the recap¬ 
turing of my mental attitude of fourteen years ago. They 
hold up the mirror of the past in a most vivid manner. 
In them I see myself poised upon the very threshold of 
Life. I see myself taking my first tottering steps along 
the pathway of maturing knowledge. I see myself slowly 
changing from an eager girl into a thoughtful and ardent 
woman. I see myself swayed by many moods, captured 
by a hundred transient emotions, but faithful always to 
the great white flame of an unquenchable ambition. 

Much of the strange glamour of that night at Margate 
had already faded from my mind. As time went on it 
assumed more and more the aspect of some vaguely 
recollected dream, whilst Martin himself reverted more 
and more to the familiar role of platonic friend. I was 
now fairly sure that I was not “in love” with him in the 


SPILLED WINE 


69 

usually accepted sense of the phrase. I did not now think 
it probable that I should ever marry him. I was too 
utterly intent upon the ambitious career I had mapped 
out for myself to entertain any thoughts of a sentimental 
nature. 

My desire to write thrust everything else into the back¬ 
ground. 

Soon after I left Kingsmead I renewed my friendship 
with Alma Gayland. 

By now the worst of her financial difficulties were over. 
The first pale glimmer of success had begun to break 
through the fog of bitter discouragement that had hung 
over her since the death of her aunt. She was living in 
three rooms at the top of a house in Vine Street, Chelsea, 
and earning sufficient money to keep her in a modest 
degree of comfort. 

She welcomed me with an almost ecstatic delight. 

“I am glad to see you again! Oh, my dear, I am!” 
she cried and kissed me several times on both cheeks. 
“It seems such ages! I can’t find any words to say just 
what I feel—but you know.” 

And she helped me off with my coat, pushed me into 
an arm-chair and began to “fuss” me with obvious en¬ 
joyment. 

It was a bitterly cold afternoon in February and a 
fire burned cheerfully in a large, old-fashioned fireplace. 
Before this Alma knelt to toast scones and crumpets and 
to make the tea, all the while keeping up a running fire 
of eager conversation. 

At first we talked mainly of Kingsmead, of former 
mutual acquaintances and familiar interests connected 


70 


SPILLED WINE 


with the old school. Then, as we sat sipping our tea 
and munching the spongy, golden-brown crumpets, the 
talk drifted inevitably to more vital matters. We began 
to speak of the work we were both doing, of our hopes 
for the future. 

“It was a ghastly, up-hill job at first,” Alma confided 
as she sat tailor-wise upon the floor, her shoulders rest¬ 
ing back against my knees. “You see Aunt Mildred only 
had an annuity and when she died it died with her. The 
house we lived in was only rented and when the furniture 
was sold there wasn’t much more than enough to pay for 
the funeral—and I’d hardly begun to earn anything— 
not nearly enough to keep me.” 

She broke off and stared grimly into the fire. Then 
she went on. 

“For about nine months it was hell! There’s no other 
word for it. I don’t know how I lived. I’ve never even 
spoken about it before. I don’t like to think of it. . . . 
I did any odd job that came along, simply anything, just 
to pay my rent—and once I owed for five weeks and the 
landlady nearly turned me out. For days together I 
never had a decent meal! . . .” 

Her voice trembled, grew husky with emotion. Lean¬ 
ing forward she picked up a log of wood and threw it 
violently on to the fire amid a shower of crimson sparks. 
There was a moment’s pregnant silence before she con¬ 
tinued. 

“You’re lucky—having a home—security—something 
behind you!” 

“Am I?” I said. It was the first time the idea had 
been presented to me. 

“Of course you are, luckier than you’ll ever realize. 


SPILLED WINE 


7 i 


You’ll be able to just sail ahead and do the best that’s 
in you without worrying all the time about where your 
next meal’s coming from. That’s the beastliest part of 
all—having to do things one hates and despises—just to 
earn a few shillings. You’ll be spared all that. But 
there, I’m out of the wood now, thank goodness! Let’s 
talk about something more pleasant.” 

As we sat on in the firelight, our conversation veering 
whimsically from one topic to another, I became aware 
of the fact that Alma seemed very much older, both in 
manner and appearance, than I had expected to find her. 
It was difficult to realize that she was not much over 
twenty. Her eyes had a wistful, over-anxious expression. 
Her whole face bore the stamp of prolonged strain. Yet 
with it all she was wonderfully cheerful. 

“Things are bucking up tremendously now,” she ex¬ 
plained. “My luck seemed to change all at once. I’ve 
got a footing. People are beginning to know me. I’ve 
had several first-class commissions lately—and I’m get¬ 
ting in with free-lance stuff.” 

When we had finished our meal she lit a lamp under 
an orange shade, cleared away the tea-things and began 
to show me proudly over her little “flat.” 

The room in which we had had tea was the one she 
used as a studio and general “work room.” I had already 
gathered as much from the profuse evidence of artistic 
paraphernalia lying scattered about in all directions. It 
was quite a large room with two good side windows as 
well as a skylight and the end near the fireplace had an 
air of inexpensive cosiness that was very attractive. It 
was the sort of room one instinctively felt “at home” in. 
Of the other two, one was a bedroom furnished very 


SPILLED WINE 


72 

plainly with a camp bedstead, a combination washstand 
and chest-of-drawers, a single chair, a strip of coco-nut 
matting and a row of pegs in one corner covered with a 
chintz curtain; while the other was no more than a box 
room, a little square place partitioned off on the landing, 
containing a sink with water laid on, a cupboard and a 
gas cooking-stove. 

All these things Alma showed me with great pride, 
and as she pointed out each separate feature, each artful 
contrivance for comfort or economy, I realized how much 
they meant to her. They were valued personal posses¬ 
sions, fought for and obtained at the cost of an almost 
incredible effort. They constituted a tangible proof of 
the success she was laboriously establishing upon a 
foundation of unconquerable optimism. 

“When I first came here, six months ago,” she told 
me, “I only had the bed, a chair and table, a few bits 
of crockery and my drawing things. I’ve bought all the 
rest bit by bit as I’ve saved up the money. I’m saving 
up now for a rug to go in front of the fire and another 
easy chair. After that I want a patent steam cooker 
and a tea service. I make a list of things I want in the 
order of their importance and tick them off as I get them. 
You’d be surprised how I manage to save. You see I 
live very cheaply.” And she went off into details con¬ 
cerning the price of bacon and bread and sugar and eggs 
and how much gas one got for a shilling and the relative 
feeding value of fresh herrings and haricot beans as com¬ 
pared with butcher’s meat. 

“In the end economy becomes a sort of science,” she 
explained. “It’s astonishing how one’s wits seem to get 
polished up as one goes along.” 


SPILLED WINE 


73 


“Yours certainly have,” I told her admiringly. “I 
think it’s wonderful how you’ve managed—perfectly 
wonderful! It must have been pretty awful at first. It 
must have seemed as though the whole world were 
against you.” 

She nodded and the familiar wisp of black hair strayed 
untidily down over her thoughtful brows. 

“It did—in a way,” she admitted. “And yet no— 
not really. Even then people were very good. There 
always seemed somebody ready to help—if I’d have let 
them. . . . No, on the whole I don’t think I’m sorry 
for the experience. It taught me a lot. It’s made me 
appreciate small mercies in a way I don’t suppose I 
ever should have done otherwise. And anyway— c’est 
la vie!” 


CHAPTER VI 


AFTER that first visit I went frequently to my 
JljL friend’s studio in Chelsea. 

Just as I had been fortunate in having Martin at one 
critical period in my life, so now I was fortunate in having 
Alma at another. Her generous encouragement and lav¬ 
ish affection helped me far more than I realized at the 
time. Her faith in my ability to do good work and her 
frank, helpful criticisms of such work when finished, 
were tonics that kept my energies at concert pitch. She 
prevented me from slipping into a rut, from getting 
“stale.” She helped to keep the flame of my enthusiasm 
bright. 

Incidentally, she was the means of introducing me to 
a new life, that fascinating life of artistic Bohemia, that 
palpitates in the youthful heart of Chelsea. It consisted 
of artists of both sexes and all descriptions, but prin¬ 
cipally of poets, painters, sculptors, and journalists. 
They were all, without any exception that I can recall, 
of the “advanced” school of thought. Most of them 
were young, enthusiastic, and essentially likeable—and 
most of them were hard up. Their “hardupishness” was, 
I think, their most consistent mutual quality—that and 
their intense desire to put the rest of the world to rights. 

It was the beginning of 1908, and all the women were 
in the toils of a dose of fever. I think this was my first 
serious introduction to the “Woman’s Question.” At any 
rate, I cannot recollect that the subject had ever pre- 

74 


SPILLED WINE 


75 


viously claimed my attention. Now, for a while, it took 
possession of me with the same passionate zest that it 
was taking possession of thousands of others of my sex. 
With the rapt eagerness of the proselyte, I drank in the 
New Gospel of Alma’s artistic friends, acquiring in the 
process a vast amount of pseudo-knowledge, a rather con¬ 
glomerate mass of indiscriminate, broadcast facts, and 
much hysterical generalizing about life as a whole and 
woman’s problem in particular. 

I read Charlotte Perkins Warbeck’s “Women and 
Economics” and the books of Ellen Key, and was greatly 
impressed. I waded through endless tracts by 'Mrs. 
Pankhurst, Mrs. Desmond, Lady Frances Balfour, and 
hosts of others, and presently I began to attend suffra¬ 
gette meetings and to subscribe to suffragette newspapers. 
My enthusiasms were boundless, my indignations in¬ 
tense. In short, I became a confirmed advocate of 
“Women’s Rights.” 

I suppose this little group of vociferous Bohemians, 
into whose society I thus suddenly found myself pro¬ 
jected, was only one of hundreds of similar groups, all 
tinged with the same fervent emotionalism, which were 
springing up like mushrooms all over the country just 
about this time. But I fancy Chelsea had the complaint 
rather more violently than other districts. Its women 
smoked harder, dressed more freakishly, behaved with 
less regard for conventional standards, and altogether 
“did the thing” more completely and extravagantly than 
most others. And for a while I drifted in the same boat 
as the rest, my inherent sense of logic and reasonableness 
swamped in the general morass of sentiment and hysteria 
that lapped around me. 


76 


SPILLED WINE 


Of course it all sounds very commonplace now, even a 
trifle absurd, but it was serious enough at the time, and 
it had a profound effect upon my mental growth. It 
switched me off upon new lines of thought and investiga¬ 
tion. It opened many new problems to me beside the 
immediate one of acquiring a vote. It threw the whole 
matter of sex and the relationship of men and women into 
a new prominence in my mind. 

Spring came early that year, and April brought me my 
first literary success amid a burst of hyacinth and tulip 
blossoms. A magazine accepted one of my stories, and 
paid me two guineas for it. 

When the letter came informing me of the wonderful 
news, I put on my hat and coat, went out into the park, 
and walked about excitedly for nearly an hour. 

I felt as though the soles of my feet were shod with 
little springs, as though all Nature were shouting to me, 
holding out eager hands of congratulation, as though the 
sun were spilling its pale glory upon the gravel paths 
for the special purpose of my stepping upon it. In that 
hour I would not have changed places with a queen. I 
doubt whether at any subsequent period of my life I 
have ever been so thrilled with the intoxicating sense of 
triumphant achievement. 

It was amusing how that first modest little success 
impressed my parents and changed their whole attitude 
towards me. Their disapproval of my “scribbling” 
swung suddenly to the other extreme, melted into an 
almost slavish admiration. My mother ceased to worry 
about my unsociability and the poverty of my chances 
from a matrimonial point of view. Possibly she even 


SPILLED WINE 


77 


went so far as to weigh up the advantages of my becoming 
a famous novelist against the more prosaic ones of my 
marrying. At any rate, from then onward she left me 
entirely to my own devices. 

In May I sold a short article to a woman’s weekly jour¬ 
nal, and two poems to another magazine, and a month 
later I succeeded in placing two more stories. 

Confidence in myself grew steadily with each new suc¬ 
cess, yet a certain ingrained diffidence prevented me from 
becoming too optimistic. 

“I wonder if my stuff really is good—or whether I’m 
just lucky?” I wrote to Martin. “It seems almost too 
easy—somehow. From all I’ve ever read on the subject 
of ‘struggling authors’ I was prepared for a very much 
harder tussle. However, of course, it’s very gratifying 
and encouraging. My fear is that it may turn out to be 
merely a lucky fluke, after all, and that presently I shall 
find I can’t sell a single thing!” 

And Martin wrote back to me, “My dear, dear little 
pal, you make me very proud of you, more proud than 
I can possibly say. And yet, in a way, it’s only what I 
expected. From the few things you’ve already sent me 
I can see that there is something different about them— 
something that marks them out from the ordinary run 
of magazine stuff. For one thing, they’re wonderfully 
mature for anyone so young to have written. There’s 
positively nothing amateurish about them, and your style 
is certainly original. If you go on as you’ve started, I 
don’t think you’ll have much to fear.” 

In August and September I sold three more stories, 
bringing the total of accepted work for the first nine 
months up to six stories, one article, and two poems. 


78 SPILLED WINE 

For this I received in all fourteen pounds, and a few 
shillings. 

I began to feel quite affluent. The future assumed a 
more and more rosy aspect. I began deliberately to look 
forward to the time when I should have become suffi¬ 
ciently self-supporting to live apart from my family. 

I think Alma’s suffragette friends must have been 
largely to blame for the ever-growing desire for com¬ 
plete independence that now took possession of me. I 
heard so much about the “freedom of the individual” and 
the “right to live one’s own life” that I came at length 
to have an absurdly exaggerated idea of the limitations 
of Laburnum Villa. 

“I’m being cramped,” I told myself, repeatedly. “I’m 
like an eagle in a cage. I must get out! The world is a 
wonderful place, and I want to see it. I want expe¬ 
rience! I want to probe about, and rummage! I want 
to find out all I can about everything—unhampered by 
any restrictions. I want to be my own mistress—en¬ 
tirely!” 

I broached the subject several times to Alma 

“I don’t know that I don’t rather envy you—after all,” 
I told her on one occasion. “You can do exactly what 
you like, when you like, and how you like. You don’t 
have the feeling that you ought to be considering some 
one else all the time—because you’re eating their bread, 
and sleeping under their roof. Now with me! . . . Of 
course, it wouldn’t be so bad if my people were different 
—if I were one of them—instead of a sort of outsider. 
Sometimes I feel like a cuckoo that’s been dropped into 
a hedge-sparrow’s nest. I don’t belong there. They put 
up with me, but they don’t approve of me, and they never 


SPILLED WINE 


79 

have. It’s as though they resented Providence ever hav¬ 
ing saddled them with such a child. . . . It’s a rotten 
thing to say, of course, but in my heart of hearts I’m 
ashamed of them—and I think they must know it. To 
have to eat a meal with them is purgatory. Even now 
my father will eat cheese with a knife, and pick his teeth 
at the table. I suppose one shouldn’t mind so much about 
such little things, but the fact remains that one does. . . . 
Their attempts at ‘gentility’ are even more ghastly. And 
yet, you know, they’re both very good sorts in their own 
way. If I’d been the kind of daughter they ought to 
have had, I expect I should have got on with them quite 
well. That’s the trouble—one can’t choose where one is 
to be born! . . . My dear, isn’t it awful when one finds 
oneself looking at one’s family as though they were un¬ 
desirable people, who had somehow got into the same 
railway carriage? I know if they were casual acquaint¬ 
ances, and I were criticizing them without bias, I should 
set my mother down as a narrow-minded, rather senti¬ 
mental person, my father as a common tradesman with 
several good points, but many unpleasant habits, and 
Stephen as the most incorrigible bounder who ever nib¬ 
bled the corners of his finger nails, wore fetching socks 
and ties, and leered insinuatingly at shop girls.” 

I broke off, overwhelmed with a sudden sense of in¬ 
excusable caddishness. Then abruptly, almost defiantly, 
I went on: 

“Alma, what do you really think of me for saying all 
this? Is it just—beastly, or do you think one ought to 
face the truth?” 

She regarded me earnestly, with her full, dog-like at¬ 
tention, and said: 


8 o 


SPILLED WINE 


“My dear, I understand exactly how you feel, and I 
don’t see that it can matter what you say to me, but, 
personally—well, somehow I can’t help feeling you’re 
rather hard on them.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. After all 
they are your parents.” 

Again I fell into a thoughtful, self-condemnatory si¬ 
lence, finally remarking: 

“P’raps you’re right! P’raps I am a beast. It’s not 
as if they’d ever been the least bit unkind to me. In 
fact, according to their standards, I suppose they’ve 
really been wonderfully good—and generous too. In a 
way, I believe they’re even proud of me. But they don’t 
understand me. They haven’t any real affection for me. 
I’m an alien, a square peg that won’t fit into a round hole. 
I dare say I embarrass them as much as they do me. . . . 
Yes, I dare say I do.” 

I don’t know when the idea of my going to live with 
Alma first originated. I imagine it must gradually have 
evolved itself in the course of our numerous talks to¬ 
gether. 

I remember a certain afternoon in October when we 
discussed the matter with great detail and an air of 
settled intention. It was a dull afternoon, cold and damp, 
and generally depressing, and we had drawn the blinds, 
lit the orange-shaded lamp, and were lingering pleasantly 
over a tea of buttered toast and preserved ginger. 

“If you’re bent on leaving home—mind you I’m not 
persuading you, but if you really are,” said Alma, “I 
don’t think you could possibly do better than come here. 


SPILLED WINE 


81 


I should be delighted, of course. . . . You see, unless 
you know the ropes even plain bread and butter’s apt 
to prove expensive. I’ve been through the mill, so I 
know. And two people can always live cheaper together 
than separately. There’d only be one lot of rent and 
gas and firing and—oh simply everything would come 
cheaper. And there’s plenty of room—if you don’t mind 
pigging it a bit. We should want another bed, and 
another set of drawers—that’s about all I think. And 
we should have each other!” 

“Of course,” I agreed. 

“Which would be awfully jolly.” 

“Simply splendid! ” 

“Mind you, I’m not persuading you. I still can’t help 
thinking you’re taking a big risk—unnecessarily-” 

I waved her caution airily aside. 

“But I mean to do it, somehow, at some time, whether 
I come here or not,” I declared. “I made up my mind 
about that long ago.” 

“Well, of course—if you feel like that-” 

“I assure you I do. I’m quite decided.” 

“But I’d like to feel sure you’d taken all the ‘cons’ 
as well as all the ‘pros’ into consideration before you do 
anything definite. There are lots of things against it, 
you know. For instance, you’re bound to miss the com¬ 
forts you’ve been used to. We’d have to live very 
plainly.” 

“I shan’t mind that.” 

Alma smiled. 

“You don’t know yet. Wait till you’ve tried it.” 

“But I know I shan’t. If that’s your only objec¬ 
tion-” 





82 


SPILLED WINE 


She took a sip of tea, set the cup carefully back in its 
saucer, placed both elbows upon the table, and stared 
thoughtfully across at me. 

“There’s the—er—the financial aspect,” she said. 

“You mean,” I answered, “that I shall have to earn 
my own living? Of course. I couldn’t accept any money 
from home, even if any were offered, which I don’t for a 
moment anticipate.” 

“It isn’t as easy as one might think.” 

“But you do it. Hundreds of other girls do it. Surely 
I can?” 

“Oh, I don’t for a moment think you couldn’t. What 
I meant was, you’ll have to be prepared for hard knocks 
at times. Things going all wrong just when it’s most 
necessary that they should go right. Editors have a 
nasty knack of not always paying up to time.” 

I nodded. 

“I’ve thought of all that,” I said, “but I still think 
I can do it. So far I’ve earned nearly fifteen pounds in 
nine months—an average of about eight shillings a week, 
which, of course, is absurd from the point of keeping me. 
But then, that was only a beginning. I’m bound to earn 
more as I go on. And I shall have some ready money 
saved up, and plenty of clothes to go on with. Oh, I 
think I shall be able to manage all right.” 

“If the worst came to the worst,” Alma speculated, 
“you could always take some sort of a job in an office— 
just to tide you over.” 

“Ye—es, I suppose I could,” I agreed, not very en¬ 
thusiastically. “I could be a secretary.” 

“There’s always some way. It’s really wonderful what 


SPILLED WINE 


83 

one can do when one has to—when one is put to the 
test.” 

Again I nodded. 

“That’s exactly what I feel myself,” I said. 

There came a rather long pause, during which we both 
stared vacantly into the fire, each following the trend of 
individual thought. Then Alma began again: 

“There’s one other thing which perhaps you haven’t 
considered.” 

“Yes?” 

“You may seriously offend your family. You may be 
cutting yourself off from them entirely.” 

I gave a little fretful sigh, and sank back into the 
creaking depths of a wicker arm-chair. 

“I can’t help it,” I said, “I must take my chance of 
that.” 

“And you’re very young.” 

“About the same age that you were.” 

“But I was forced to it. I didn’t do it from choice.” 

“Also you weren’t so lucky as I am. You hadn’t a 
perfect brick of a pal to stand by you.” 

With a little characteristic burst of affection she came 
over, flung her arms about my shoulders, and hugged me 
spasmodically. 

“My dear, don’t think I’m trying to put you off,” she 
cried, “I’m just longing to have you, but I feel it a sort 
of duty to point out all the unpleasant things that might 
happen. I should hate you to be sorry afterwards you 
ever did it.” 

I kissed the cheek that lay against mine and patted 
her arm reassuringly. 

“My dear, I don’t think I shall ever be that. You see, 




SPILLED WINE 


84 

it’s bound to come sooner or later. Every time I go 
home, especially from here, a sort of stifled feeling comes 
over me, a feeling that it’s not a bit the sort of place I 
ought to be living in. It has the same effect upon me as 
a feather bed. I’m sure if I stayed there long enough, 
I should get curvature of the moral spine. Besides, you 
know it isn’t as though they really wanted me. Apart 
from a certain hurt to their pride I don’t suppose they’ll 
mind a bit. Oh, I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. 
I’m sure.” 

Very slowly Alma sank upon her knees beside me, 
arranging herself in her favourite attitude of a cross- 
legged Buddha. 

“I wonder!” she speculated earnestly. “I wonder!” 

The rupture with my family was not accomplished 
without difficulty—in fact, not without a considerable 
amount of unpleasantness. 

I don’t think my parents were so much hurt, as amazed 
and indignant that I should contemplate leaving them in 
this casual manner. 

“Why, my dear girl, you must be mad! Absolutely 

* 

mad! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” my 
father raved as he strode angrily up and down the length 
of the dining-room. 

“You’ll starve to death or something d—dreadful will 
happen to you,” my mother sobbed. “And it isn’t re¬ 
spectable. Whatever could I say to people when they 
asked me where you were? They’d think all sorts of 
things.” 

“Whatever does it matter what they think?” I re¬ 
torted. “What I do is my own affair, not theirs.” 


SPILLED WINE 


35 

“It’s ours too. We’re your parents, aren’t we?” And 
her voice broke in a sniffling sob. “However I shall hold 
up my head again, with my daughter making a public 
disgrace of herself, I don’t know.” 

“Oh, rubbish,” I snapped. “How can going to live 
with another girl be disgracing myself?” 

“And—and just when things were going so beautifully 
too—and we were getting to know such nice people.” 

“The point is,” my father broke in again, with the 
effect of a rather small bomb bursting with the full vio¬ 
lence of its capacity, “wot are you goin’ ter live on? 
That’s wot I want ter know?” 

I drew in a deep breath, held tightly on to the back of 
a chair, and replied, “I shall—shall earn my own living, 
of course.” 

He gave a little derisive sniff. 

“Earn yer own fiddlesticks! Think it’s as easy as 
shellin’ peas, I s’pose. You’re sufferin’ from a swelled 
’ead, my gal, that’s wot’s the matter with you. And all 
because you managed ter get some of these ’ere tales o’ 
yours published. Well, all I can say is, the sooner you 
git off the ’igh ’orse, the better. You always was a rum 
’un—putting on airs and graces, and making a con¬ 
founded nuisance of yerself. But this is the bloomin’ 
limit, this is—wantin’ ter go gallivanting about makin’ a 
career fer yerself! Career, indeed! Who d’yer s’pose 
you are? A Marie Corelli?” 

Here my mother’s muffled sobs broke out into noisy 
weeping. 

“Most ungr—grateful I call it,” she sniffed, “but there 
—you always have been a most unnatural child. Never 


86 


SPILLED WINE 


thinking of anyone but yourself. Keeping out of our 
way, as if we wasn’t good enough for you. . . .” 

And so it went on in a narrow, stupid, recriminating 
circle that revolved indefinitely, getting steadily more 
violent and unpleasant, but leading absolutely nowhere. 

And then, just when I was despairing of ever making 
them see reason and come to an amicable understanding 
over the matter, I found an unexpected ally in Stephen. 

“After all, you know, why shouldn’t she do it, if she 
wants to?” he suddenly demanded, in the midst of a par¬ 
ticularly boisterous scene. “I’m sure I can’t see any¬ 
thing very unusual in it—anything to make such a 
beastly fuss about. Lots of other girls do it nowadays. 
There’s Lizette Chepstow of the Gaiety, f’rinstance. I’m 
sure her family’s most respectable—father a clergyman 
down in Devonshire or something—and she earns her 
own living. Lives with a girl friend in a flat in Victoria. 
Awfully jolly place too! Oh! it’s quite a common thing 
these days, I assure you. No one thinks anything of it.” 

I wasn’t particularly flattered at being compared with 
a chorus girl, and I was perfectly well aware that Stephen 
only took my part in the dispute because my departure 
from Laburnum Villa happened to suit his own book, 
but I was glad of the intervention all the same. 

As long as I could remember, my brother’s opinion had 
always been accepted as final in all matters of family 
discussion. The present occasion was no exception to 
the rule. Because he elected to pronounce the arrange¬ 
ment a perfectly sensible one, my parents were eventually 
persuaded to think likewise. It seemed to set the whole 
matter in a new light. My mother dried her tears, 
ceased to look as if I were on the point of committing 


SPILLED WINE 87 

suicide or going on the streets, and began, with sur¬ 
prising ease, to adapt herself to this new point of view. 

My father gave up pacing the dining-room floor like 
a caged beast, while the stiff breeze of his anger died 
away into more inarticulate rumblings and gruntings. 

“Of course, I could prevent you—by law—if I wanted 
to,” he growled. “A parent still has some rights you 
know—though you don’t seem to think it. But if you’re 
so ungrateful and—and unnatural as ter want ter leave 
us—like this—after all we’ve done for you—why, go! 
And jolly good riddance! All I say is, don’t come squeal¬ 
ing back ’ere when yer finds things isn’t as pleasant as 
yer thought they was goin’ ter be. And don’t ever ex¬ 
pect any more ’elp from me—cos yer won’t get it! Not 
another penny from me as long as I live—nor when I’m 
dead neither. There, that’s straight. Them as makes 
their own bed can lie on it.” 

He finished up with a parting shot about “hoping I’d 
learn my lesson,” and took himself violently out of the 
room, thereafter adopting an aloof and frigid attitude 
and making elaborate pretence of not being aware of my 
existence. 

On the night before I left home, just as I was falling 
asleep for the last time in my little rosewood bed, there 
came a gentle tapping at the door, and my mother, wear¬ 
ing a grey quilted wrap over a starched white calico 
nightgown, crept timidly into the room. 

For a moment the look of combined guilt and tragedy 
on her face quite startled me. The next, she was on her 
knees by the bedside, sobbing hysterically, and pushing 
an old leather purse under my pillow. 


88 


SPILLED WINE 


“I c—couldn’t let you go—without anything,” she 
choked. “It isn’t much—but it’s something—all the 
ready money I could find—and, oh, Ann dear, promise 
me—if you’re ever really in want, that—that you’ll let 
me know—at once. Of course, father didn’t mean all he 
said—about not g—giving you any more money. I’ll 
try to send you some regularly—say, ten shillings a week 
—if you like.” 

An odd lump rose in my throat. Sitting up in bed, 
I put my arms impulsively about this faded, common¬ 
place little woman, who, after all, was still my mother, 
and whose unexpected concern over my welfare touched 
me strangely. 

“You mustn’t worry yourself about me,” I counselled 
with affected cheerfulness. “I shall know how to take 
care of myself all right. And I—I’d much rather you 
didn’t send me any money—I would really. I’m sure I 
shall be able to earn quite enough without.” 

“B—but supposing you couldn’t? Suppose you were 
ever dreadfully hard up—starving?” 

The tragic pathos of her tones made me want to laugh 
even while the lump in my throat grew bigger. 

“If things ever get as bad as that,” I conceded, “I’ll 
let you know.” 

She lifted a red, swollen face from the bed clothes, and 
looked at me searchingly. 

“You promise?” she queried. 

“Yes, I promise,” I said. 

“And there’s something else.” From under the grey 
dressing gown she brought out a muff and fur of black 
fox, a rather nice set that she had recently bought for 
herself, and placed it on the counterpane. “IPs going 


SPILLED WINE 89 

to be a cold winter and your grey squirrel’s quite worn 
out,” she said. “You’d better take these.” 

At this point an absurd desire to cry myself came over 
me. My eyes swam mistily. For the first time in my 
life I had the feeling that I was looking down into my 
mother’s naked soul, seeing her as she might have been 
—but for Stephen. 

Tightening my hold upon her heaving shoulders, I 
hugged her silently against my knees, and presently I 
bent my head and kissed her wet cheek, kissed it several 
times with unusual warmth. 

“You know—you’re an awful dear—really,” I mumbled 
self-consciously. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve been a little 
beast to you, and I’m—I’m sorry.” 

Her arms went out and encircled my waist. I could 
feel her body shake with every sob. 

“It’s not your f—fault,” she protested. “I know I’ve 
not been really good to you—not a proper mother. I’ve 
neglected you . . . and you seem to have drifted so far 
away from me—somehow! ... But you were my baby 
once. And to-night, suddenly, it all came back—and I 
couldn’t help th—thinking how different things might 
have been.” 

For one brief moment we had ceased to be strangers. 
We had come closer together than at any other time of 
our lives. We had realized something of the intimate 
nature of our relationship. 


CHAPTER VII 


jL writers and philosophers, when referring to the 



jL\. Goddess Fortune, invariably label her as “fickle” 
and, judging from my own experience, she certainly de¬ 
serves the title. 

From the moment I left home, my luck seemed to 
desert me utterly. Try as I would I could beguile no 
editor into accepting anything I wrote. Time after time 
I sent out my ever-growing batch of stories and articles, 
and time after time they came back to me with no ac¬ 
knowledgment beyond the usual printed slip of polite 
refusal. It was as though fate had suddenly conspired 
to punish me for my insolent pride in my own ability, to 
humble me unmercifully. 

Day after day I sat before the little wooden desk I 
had installed at one end of the studio, and drove my 
pen over the ruled lines of innumerable pages, with a 
tirelessness, a painstaking pertinacity that surely was 
deserving of some reward, but all to no purpose. 

As the weeks went by and I did not succeed in selling 
a single thing that I wrote, I began to grow anxious and 
finally alarmed. Fortunately, in those days living was 
cheap, really remarkably cheap, when compared with the 
present time. When I left home I had a trifle over 
nineteen pounds in my pocket. Nearly fifteen of it rep¬ 
resented my total earnings so far, about two pounds I 
had saved up out of my weekly allowance, and the rest 
my mother had given me the night before I left home. 


SPILLED WINE 


9i 

Nineteen pounds combined with a trunk full of good 
clothes, a box of books and a typewriter, had seemed a 
fortune as I bowled along the wet streets from Dulwich 
to Chelsea that dismal Saturday afternoon. But as day 
followed day, and I added nothing fresh to my steadily 
melting capital, I began to lose faith, to wonder whether, 
after all, I had been a presumptuous fool. 

I said very little of what was happening in my letters 
to Martin. For the first time pride forbade perfect 
frankness. I wrote vaguely about things “not going 
specially well,” at the same time adding that I had been 
quite prepared for it and was not in the least disturbed. 

“In fact,” I said, “I’m not sure that it isn’t the best 
thing that could have happened. Things were going too 
well. I might have got slack. I might have been tempted 
to do less than my best. Now I’m on my mettle! . . . 
Oh, in the end it’s going to be all right. I’ve no fear 
of that!” 

I wrote home occasionally, short breezy notes that 
contained no hint of my apparent failure. Not for 
worlds would I have had my family know that things 
were not shaping precisely as I anticipated. I think it 
was the haunting dread of their scorn, should I in the 
end be beaten, that strung me up to a pitch of determina¬ 
tion so intense as seriously to threaten my health. 

“All artists who count, all men and women who have 
ever made names for themselves in the past, have invari¬ 
ably experienced just exactly what I am experiencing 
now,” I told myself consolingly. “But they wouldn’t 
understand. They’d just think I was a fool—that I was 
bound to fail.” 

Christmas and the New Year came and went in an 


92 


SPILLED WINE 


atmosphere of dull depression. By the end of January 
my nineteen pounds had dwindled to five, and still noth¬ 
ing further had been accepted. 

“It’s rotten, beastly!” I exclaimed passionately to 
Alma. “It’s not even fair. It isn’t as though my stuff’s 
any worse now than it was three months ago. Some of 
it’s a great deal better. Those articles on folk-lore, for 
instance, and ‘The Herdsman’—they’re really good. I 
don’t believe myself they’ve even been read!” 

“Of course they’re good,” Alma agreed as she carefully 
measured two teaspoonfuls of cocoa into a cup. “I should 
try not to worry too much about it if I were you. I had 
just the same thing happen myself. I believe it’s nothing 
more than a sort of cantankerousness of fate. P’raps 
it’s her way of finding out what sort of stuff we’re made 
of—whether we’ve got enough grit in us to be worth 
bothering about.” 

“That’s all very well as a theory,” I replied, “but the 
point is—what am I going to do when all my money’s 
gone?” 

“It’s not all gone yet.” 

“But it soon will be.” 

She looked at me quizzically, her head a little on one 
side. 

“I shouldn’t cross my bridges before I came to them,” 
she counselled. “Besides, this firm’s a partnership, isn’t 
it? I’m not hard up. In fact, I’m particularly flush at 
the moment.” 

“But, my dear Alma, I can’t sponge on you—I mean 
not indefinitely,” I almost groaned. “Already you’ve 
been perfectly wonderful to me. I couldn’t have managed 


SPILLED WINE 93 

at all but for you. I didn’t come here to be a nuisance, 
you know.” 

Whereupon she embraced me fiercely, declaring that 
I never could be that, that it was a great pleasure to 
have me at all, that she “didn’t know how on earth she’d 
get on without me now,” that she had plenty of money, 
and that she would feel hurt if I didn’t take advantage 
of the fact if it became necessary. 

“But I don’t suppose it will,” she ended cheerfully, 
“your luck may change any moment. It’s bound to, 
sooner or later. It’s only a matter of patience.” 

On the day I broke into my last sovereign, the post 
brought me a cheque for two guineas for an article sent 
to a daily newspaper. I accepted it as an omen, a pledge 
of good faith. 

“You were right!” I announced jubilantly to Alma. 
“Fate hadn’t turned me down, she was only testing me.” 

After that things were slightly better, but still far 
from satisfactory. Such sums as I earned were quite 
inadequate to my needs, besides being woefully erratic. 

I had begun to consider the advisability of searching 
for a steady job with a weekly wage attached, when, 
quite by accident, in the course of answering an adver¬ 
tisement for a “confidential secretary for the editorial 
office of a weekly society journal,” I was offered the job 
of writing up sensational paragraphs for a page headed 
“Quizzical Queries!” 

Of course I accepted. I had no choice in the matter. 
A drowning man could scarcely be expected to refuse 
the aid of a lifebelt, on the grounds that the pattern 
wasn’t to his liking. The whole thing, however, was 
frankly detestable. It wasn’t even honest. It didn’t 


SPILLED WINE 


94 

seem to matter whether the things I wrote, or rather 
hinted about, were even true, so long as they were spicy 
enough to tickle the palate of the particular public that 
read them. In fact, on one occasion when the item of 
scandal I pitched upon happened to have a substratum 
of more than usual truth, the paper was sued by an irate, 
bad-tempered gentleman, with a monocle and a reputa¬ 
tion of notorious shadiness, and got let in for rather 
heavy damages. 

Incidentally, this terminated my connection with the 
journal, but not until it had supplied me with a regular 
income for about six months, and tided me over what 
would otherwise, I’m afraid, have proved a serious finan¬ 
cial gap. 

As the first hint of spring began to break up the grim 
austerity of winter, a certain amount of renewed hope 
brightened within me. There is something about the 
spring which invariably has a most curious effect upon 
me, an indescribably stimulating uprush of emotion which 
is like nothing else I have ever been conscious of. 

The spring of 1909 was no exception. In spite of the 
still flagging pace of my literary progress, I began to feel 
renewed confidence in the fact that success must come in 
the end, that it was merely hiding from me, that I should 
presently turn a corner and find myself face to face 
with it. 

And then, suddenly, in April, came the Great Idea! 

I was walking through Kensington Gardens one morn¬ 
ing, on my way to Fleet Street, still dreaming of the 
future and of what I should do, when I had at length 
successfully stormed the vast citadel of Fame, when the 
“^Esop” inspiration flashed upon me. 


SPILLED WINE 


95 

I think it was the sight of a long-legged, long-billed 
bird trying to drink water out of a little scooped-out 
pool in a rock, that first brought the fable of the Fox 
and the Stork into my mind. And from that came a 
thronging crowd of collateral thoughts. How could one 
apply the idea to a modern story? I asked myself, and 
at once half a dozen intriguing parallels occurred to me. 
I realized that the incident of the Fox and the Stork 
could readily be adapted to the requirements of an 
amusing up-to-date comedy. 

From this point I began to recall other fables. The 
Ass in the Lion’s Skin, The Fox and the Grapes, The 
Lion and the Mouse, etc., etc., and to each in turn I 
applied a modern version of the same idea. 

The theme interested me. I saw at once the possi¬ 
bilities it contained. 

“Here,” I told myself excitedly, “is matter for a whole 
series of short stories, bound together with a common 
interest. Every one is familiar with ^Esop’s Fables. 
Most people must, at some time or another, have been 
struck with the subtle quality of their wisdom, the way 
in which they condense profound, psychological truths 
into little allegorical pictures—so simple, yet so con¬ 
vincing! . . . And I believe the idea’s quite new, I don’t 
think it’s ever been used before!” 

Instead of proceeding upon my way to Fleet Street, 
where I had intended to distribute certain MSS. among 
certain publishing offices, I paced the deserted paths of 
the Gardens until the whole theme had been carefully 
planned out and rough modelled in my brain. Then I 
took a ’bus home to Chelsea, tore off my hat and coat, 
and literally flung myself down at my desk. 


96 


SPILLED WINE 


The “iEsop” series was by far the biggest and most 
ambitious thing I had yet tackled. It fired my imagina¬ 
tion like a match set to a barrel of gunpowder. Day 
after day I worked at fever pitch, barely pausing for 
meals, impatient with everything and every one who 
would separate me from this new obsession, this dancing, 
beckoning spirit of creation that had so suddenly taken 
possession of me. 

Out of the hundred and three fables I selected the 
twelve best known and proceeded to turn them into 
modern stories. I called each one separately by the 
title of the fable it retold, and the whole group collec¬ 
tively, “^Esop Up-to-date.” 

They came to me with a wonderful ease, flowing from 
my pen like water from the smitten rock. They were 
piquant, sparkling, original. They were like dancing 
fauns following the lilting pipes of Pan, light-hearted, 
irresponsible, superficial, without depth or meaning, or 
any real understanding of life, yet filled with the subtle 
appeal of untrammelled youth. 

“I shall send them first to a magazine/ 7 I told Alma 
enthusiastically, “and then, one day, I shall republish 
them in book form, and you shall illustrate them. You’d 
do them beautifully. You’d have to give each of the 
principal characters a sort of animal look. For instance, 
Mr. Renardoux would have the look of a fox, and Miss 
Rodenten would be like a mouse—a tiny, cindery-haired 
person with a sort of wistful nose—you know.” 

I said this with the utmost self-confidence, already 
convinced in my own mind that “^Esop” was going to 
be a success. 

The writing of those twelve stories took me a little 


SPILLED WINE 


97 

over four months. I finished them one hot night at the 
very end of August. 

As I carried them off to the office of the magazine I 
had decided to offer them to, I could hardly control my 
excitement. I wanted to run and skip, and fling my hat 
in the air. As I came back I was conscious of a feeling 
of reaction, of “flatness.” 

My work for the moment was done. The first impor¬ 
tant task I had ever essayed was finished as far as I was 
concerned. There remained nothing to do now but to 
await results. 

Half-way along Piccadilly I got off the ’bus and walked 
into Green Park. 

It surprised me to find a few leaves already lying 
scattered about upon the ground, and to watch others 
every now and then detach themselves from the soot- 
grimed branches and sail slowly through the warm, still 
air. 

“Why, already summer’s nearly gone!” I cried amaz- 
edly within myself. “I never knew one go so quickly 
before!” 

In the years to come I was to notice again and again 
the same phenomenon, how an entire season, or even two, 
could pass almost unnoticed in the throes of artistic 
creation. 

Weeks slipped by, and I received no communication 
from the editor with whom I had entrusted “iEsop Up- 
to-date.” 

An odd reluctance to begin anything fresh hung over 
me. For the time being I felt “written out,” mentally 

inert. 


SPILLED WINE 


98 

The leaves of the Virginia creeper on the wall beneath 
the studio window turned red and fell away one by one 
like drops of blood from a gaping scarlet wound. Au¬ 
tumn came again, a wet, tiresome autumn, that seemed 
deliberately to discourage inspiration. I sold one or two 
of my old stories, and made spasmodic attempts to begin 
new ones, but somehow I seemed incapable of producing 
a single sentence that was not lifeless and stupid. 

I complained of this in a letter to Martin. 

“It’s the oddest thing,” I wrote, “but I feel as empty 
of ideas as a pricked balloon, as mentally ‘stale’ as the 
proverbial railway bun. The very sight of blank paper 
makes me irritable. I’ve tried to stimulate myself by 
reading other people—Shaw and Bennett and Wells and 
Maeterlinck and Galsworthy, for instance—but the fact 
of their brilliance only makes my own stupidity the more 
apparent. What can be the matter with me, I wonder? 
If only I could find an antidote to this crass moral in¬ 
dolence that holds me in its grip like some invisible oc¬ 
topus!” 

And Martin wrote back to me from Australia, mingling 
counsels of patience with vivid pen pictures of Sydney 
harbour and the apple orchards of Tasmania. But long 
before the letter reached me I had been swept into the 
maelstrom of a bewildering personal disaster. 

On the heels of ennui, of dampness and mugginess and 
general boredom, came the swooping eagle of tragedy. 

About eleven o’clock on a certain October evening a 
fire broke out in one of the Walworth Road shops, and 
my father—who, apparently, had stayed behind after 
closing, hours to go through some accounts—was burnt 


SPILLED WINE 


99 

to death, his body being so badly charred as to be un¬ 
recognizable. 

Ten days later my mother died of pneumonia resulting 
from shock and a severe chill caught on the night of 
the fire. 

I remember the details of the funeral very distinctly, 
although, at the time, I appeared to be suffering from a 
curious inertia. It was a chill grey morning, with shreds 
of mist that swirled and drifted like the visible breath of 
autumn among the tombstones of the dreary London 
cemetery. I have a vivid recollection of myself standing 
beside the grave, holding very tightly to Alma’s hand, 
feeling dazed and irrelevant, and oddly out of place. 

I don’t think the true significance of what was taking 
place came home to me at the time. My thoughts 
strayed uncontrollably. I remember how a certain huski¬ 
ness in the throat of the clergyman who read the burial 
service irritated me unbearably. I wanted to ask him 
to cough. I remember how surprised I was to see Ste¬ 
phen dressed entirely in black. It occurred to me that 
he had left something essential to his character at home 
in the drawers with his socks and ties, that no one would 
recognize him in his present disguise. The only thing 
really familiar about him was the way he persistently 
nibbled at his nicotine-stained finger-nails. . . . 

It was all over at last, and I drove back to Chelsea still 
holding very tightly to Alma’s hand, still conscious of 
a queer sensation of mental and physical stupor. 

I was not so much distressed as utterly amazed at the 
dramatic turn events had taken. Even in the first shock 
of bereavement I did not delude myself into thinking 
that I had suffered an irreparable loss. I was sorry, of 


100 


SPILLED WINE 


course, but I knew quite well that it was not the sorrow 
I might have felt—under different circumstances. I knew 
that I should soon get over it, that it would leave no 
lasting scar on my memory. 

As the taxi drew up at the curb in front of No. 16 
Vine Street I broke the silence for the first time by re¬ 
marking: 

“There goes the last leaf of the Virginia creeper. How 
bare the walls look!” 

Then I jumped out, paid the fare, and ran quickly up 
the short flight of steps to the front door. As I opened 
it and stepped inside, my shoe, still yellow with the clay 
from my mother’s grave, trod upon a letter that lay upon 
the mat. 

It was from the editor of the Zenith Magazine, who 
wrote to say that he had much pleasure in retaining my 
series of short stories entitled “^Esop Up-to-date” at a 
flat rate of five guineas each, and that he would be very 
glad to consider more of my work! 

My father, somewhat to my surprise, I must admit, 
had kept his threat about cutting me out of his will. 
Everything he possessed was left to Stephen. My 
mother, however, had not forgotten me. She had left 
me a certain amount of the furniture of Laburnum Villa, 
several pieces of jewellery, and two hundred pounds. 

The furniture, of which I sold the greater part, fetched 
one hundred and eighty-five pounds, and the jewellery, 
of which I kept one piece only, a rather fine emerald 
ring, ninety-eight pounds. So altogether I had four 
hundred and eighty-three pounds. This would presently 
be augmented by the sixty pounds which I should receive 


SPILLED WINE 


IOI 


for my series of short stories, so I was actually the pos¬ 
sessor of five hundred and forty-three pounds, a sum 
which seemed enormous to me. 

“Why, with five hundred pounds one could do almost 
anything,” I exclaimed one evening as I sat, pencil in 
hand, before a litter of papers upon which I had been 
making various intricate calculations for over an hour. 

It was a Tuesday evening early in December, and Alma 
was working at a design for a magazine cover, which had 
to reach a certain Fleet Street office by ten o’clock the 
following morning. 

She did not answer my remark, probably she was too 
much absorbed even to have heard it, and for several 
moments I sat watching her in the lamplight, watching 
the quick, skilful movements of her hands, the tilting and 
straightening of her head, the way little warm shadows 
went sliding over her cheek and along her arm, to gather 
into a deep pool under her elbow. 

“She’d make rather a good picture herself—like that,” 
I mused. 

As I watched her I went on tapping my pencil gently 
upon the paper before me, and thinking hard. And 
presently, out of the welter of possibilities that swam 
temptingly before my mind’s eye, a certain definite idea 
thrust itself into my mind with the irresistible force of 
an inspiration. 

“I’ve got it!” I cried suddenly, and jabbed my pencil 
so hard against the desk, that the point broke and Alma 
looked up at me with an air of startled surprise. “I 
know what we’ll do! We’ll go to Paris! We’ll live 
there for a year! I wonder I didn’t think of it before.” 


102 


SPILLED WINE 


“Paris?” Alma repeated a trifle vaguely. “But, my 
dear-” 

“Now don’t start arguing. It won’t bear argument.” 

“But-” 

“Well?” 

“You can’t be serious?” 

“Serious! Of course I am. I was never more serious 
in my life. We’ve got to live somewhere. It might just 
as well be here as there. We’ll take a flat or something 
and go on just the same as we’re doing now—only it’ll 
be Paris and not London. Paris! Think of it! Why, 
the mere name thrills me. My only wonder is that it 
didn’t occur to me long ago.” 

Alma put down her paint-brush, wiped her fingers on 
a piece of rag, and screwed her brows into a frown of 
intense bewilderment. 

“Are you suggesting,” she said, “that I should go?” 

“Of course. You don’t suppose I’m going alone, do 
you?” 

“But it’s so—so—well, I don’t know what to think.” 

“You needn’t think. Leave the thinking to me.” 

She shook her head and her frown melted into a per¬ 
plexed smile. 

“What a strange person you are,” she said. 

“Why?” 

“You always seem to be wanting to do something un¬ 
usual, out of the ordinary.” 

“But what’s unusual about wanting to go to Paris? 
I should have thought you would have jumped at the 
idea. I thought all artists wanted to go.” 

“There’s a lot of difference between wanting to go 
and being able to go.” 




SPILLED WINE 


103 


“But surely you’d like to go?” 

“Like to? Oh, well, y-y-yes—I suppose I’d like to 
right enough. ... Of course, I’d like to. In fact I’d 
love it!” 

“Well then, why argue?” 

“But, Ann, how could we?” 

“Easily. Personally, I can’t see anything against it.” 

“I can—lots.” 

“For instance?” 

“Well—these rooms.” 

“We could sub-let them furnished. I’m sure Mrs. Watts 
wouldn’t mind. And in any case the rent isn’t very ruin¬ 
ous. I can afford to be a little extravagant.” 

“And we’d be losing all our friends.” 

“We’d soon make others.” 

“And getting out of touch with everything.” 

“Not a bit. It wouldn’t make any difference to your 
working and selling your stuff—over here—just the same. 
You’d make quite as much money, p’raps a good deal 
more. You’d have fresh subjects to inspire you, a new 
environment, a new vision. You’d be able to join some 
of those famous art schools in the Latin Quarter one 
reads so much about. You’d be within a stone’s throw 
of some of the finest picture galleries in Europe—in the 
very heart of the artistic world. Why, my dear, you can’t 
hesitate?” 

As I talked I saw a dull flush mount slowly in my 
friend’s sallow cheeks. There came an eager, wistful 
look into her big brown eyes. Suddenly with a little 
gasp she clasped her two hands together, and crushed 
them ecstatically against her breast. 

“Oh,” she breathed, “to hear you talk! You make it all 


104 


SPILLED WINE 


seem so possible and so wonderful 1 You make me ache 
to have it all come true, positively ache! The Louvre! 
The Luxembourg! And—Paris! Oh, Ann, don’t tempt 
me!” 

“But why not? There isn’t a single real reason why 
we shouldn’t go.” 

And I went on to enumerate all the advantages, both 
personal and artistic, to be derived from a year’s sojourn 
in Paris, and little by little, her half-hearted objections, 
her timidity in the face of what had at first seemed a 
rather startling proposition, melted away before the bat¬ 
tery of my eager persuasions. 

“It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing,” she ad¬ 
mitted at length. “But I never really hoped for it to 
come true. It seemed so—oh, so improbable from all 
points of view.” 

She got up from her stool, leaving the almost finished 
sketch in the full light of the lamp, and began to move 
restlessly about the room. Presently she paused by the 
fireplace, turned sharply to me and said, “But so far, 
you seem to have been looking at the matter entirely 
from my point of view—an artist’s point of view. I ad¬ 
mit it would be invaluable experience for me—but what 
good would it do you?” 

I gave a confident little laugh. 

“All the good in the world,” I said. “What I want 
more than anything else is knowledge. Paris will give 
me that. It will give me a new language, a new litera¬ 
ture, a new and vital slice of ‘local colouring’—and un¬ 
limited new material for stories. Best of all, it will be 
be broadening my whole outlook, adding to my stock of 
human experiences. It’s really preposterous when you 


SPILLED WINE 


105 


come to think of it, my attempting to write at all as I 
am. The greater part of life is still a closed book to me. 
I’ve lived in one narrow little rut for nineteen years, and 
now I’ve got the chance to get out I’m going to take it. 
A writer’s stock in trade is Knowledge. He can’t write 
decent stuff without it, any more than a baker can bake 
bread without flour. Et puis voila! We go to Paris!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


W ITHIN a month our arrangements for leaving 
London were complete. We had let the studio 
for eight months. We had also, on the recommendation 
of a young journalist recently returned from Paris, en¬ 
gaged rooms in advance in the Pension Gaumet, rue 
Racine. Circumstances seemed to be favouring our ad¬ 
venture in all directions. 

It was with a thrill of rapturous anticipation that I 
stepped out of the continental train at Dover harbour 
about mid-day on the sixth of January, 1910, and walked 
down the narrow covered-in quay to the cross-channel 
steamer. 

I had never been upon any sea-going vessel before, 
and as I felt the engines throb and churn beneath us, as 
I watched the white cliffs of the English coast melt 
majestically away into a faint pearly mist, an extra¬ 
ordinary feeling of exhilaration came over me. 

It was a wonderful day for the time of the year, clear 
and cold and invigorating, with bright sunlight pouring 
down out of a sky of palest turquoise on to a sea of 
glittering aquamarine. As far as the eye could see 
danced little happy waves, their white, foam-flecked 
crests riding gaily over glassy, beryl-green hollows. Sea¬ 
gulls swung and dipped and pirouetted in the fresh 
breeze, strips of snowy cloud went racing like streaming 
mares’ tails along the horizon. Into my nostrils came 

the stinging scent of salted spray, into my heart a crazy 

106 


SPILLED WINE 


107 


palpitating gladness, a thrill of indescribable expectancy. 

I believe Alma was feeling seasick, though how anyone 
could feel seasick under such conditions I could not 
imagine. At any rate she vanished below after the first 
five minutes, leaving me to enjoy the full glory of the 
moment alone. With my hands in my pockets, a scarf 
tied over my hat, and my fur pulled closely about my 
ears, I walked with long swinging strides about the deck. 

As I went I drew in breath after breath of the keen, 
pungent air. I felt intensely happy. Joy seemed to be 
welling up within me like a little spring. I felt that I 
was upon the threshold of Life, real Life, at last. It was 
as though I were standing before Ali Baba’s cave whis¬ 
pering the magic words “Open Sesame,” and watching 
the door swing wide before me. Never before had the 
Piper’s tune sounded so sweetly in my ears. Columbus, 
as he neared the coast of the New World, must have felt 
very much as I felt. 

At first, absorbed as I was in my own personal enjoy¬ 
ment, I did not take very much notice of my fellow 
passengers. They seemed to me a very ordinary crowd 
of everyday English people with a thin sprinkling of 
foreigners, and I had no desire to examine them closely. 
After a while, however, I became aware that one of them 
was not in the least ordinary. In fact from the first 
moment that I became clearly conscious of his existence 
I thought him distinctly remarkable. He seemed to stand 
out from among all the rest with a clearness that I cannot 
account for. I judged him to be an Englishman of very 
superior class, and about thirty years of age, possibly a 
little more or a little less, it was not easy to judge. He 
was wearing a great fawn-coloured overcoat lined with 


io8 


SPILLED WINE 


some sort of brown fur, and a cap pulled so low upon the 
head as to almost conceal his face. 

He walked about in the same manner as myself, his 
chin sunk deep into the nest of his upturned collar. And 
every time we met and passed my interest in him grew. 
I found myself wondering who he was, what sort of voice 
he spoke with, and what colour his eyes were. And then, 
at length, just as we were in the act of approaching, he 
suddenly raised his head, and looked full into my face, 
and I saw that his eyes were blue, the purest, clearest, 
most amazing blue that I had ever seen, and that the 
whole expression of his face, in spite of a certain air of 
temporary abstraction, was one of exceptional charm. 

I don’t think he noticed me. He seemed to look 
through me with two blue points of concentrated vague¬ 
ness—and pass on. But the next time we encountered 
there came a flicker of recognition, the faint awakening 
of a reciprocal interest, as though the fact of our con¬ 
tinual meeting was beginning to effect an impression 
upon his subconscious mind. 

Ten minutes later he almost smiled. 

It was not exactly a smile. It involved no more than 
the eyes. It was as though some little impish thought 
danced momentarily behind their blueness. . . . 

I have often speculated upon the question of whether 
we should ever have spoken to one another but for a 
certain trifling incident. I had paused for a moment 
against the side of the ship to gaze in the direction from 
whence would come my first glimpse of France, and as I 
turned to move away again the wind blew my scarf 
suddenly towards him as he passed, attaching it with an 


SPILLED WINE 


109 


almost uncanny fatefulness to the claw of a ring he wore. 

He stopped instantly. 

“Fm awfully sorry,” he apologized. “I can’t imagine 
how that happened. It’s never caught in anything 
before.” 

He came close to my side, spread out his left hand, 
palm downwards, and began an attempt to detach my 
scarf. 

As he did so, I was conscious of an odd mixture of 
embarrassment and pleasure. His voice was deep-toned 
and distinguished, exactly the sort of voice I had imag¬ 
ined he would have. His clear-cut features, silhouetted 
against the blue sea, were unquestionably the features 
of an aristocrat, likewise the shapely sunburned hand 
stretched out before me. Upon the third finger of the 
hand reposed the ring that had caused the mischief. It 
was an onyx carved in the shape of a sleeping lion. The 
gold claws that held it in position appeared to have 
become hopelessly entangled in the gossamer mesh of my 
veil. 

“I’m afraid I shall have to tear it,” he said, after a 
moment’s unsuccessful effort. “Or do you think you 
could manage it? Your fingers are probably better than 
mine for this sort of job,” and he held out his hand 
towards me. “I’m sorry I can’t take the ring off. It’s a 
hopeless fixture. I haven’t been able to move it for 
years.” 

The touch of this stranger’s firm warm flesh made me 
feel curiously nervous, and I fumbled more hopelessly 
than he himself had done. In the end I tore the veil 
away almost roughly. 

“It doesn’t matter,” I assured him. “I don’t suppose 


no 


SPILLED WINE 


I shall ever wear it again in any case. I hate black. I 
think going into mourning an absurd superstition, don’t 
you?” 

And from that, by way of half a dozen perfectly com¬ 
monplace remarks, we drifted into a conversation of 
amazing interest and spontaneity. 

He asked me where I was going, and I told him to 
Paris. 

“It’s my first trip abroad,” I added ingenuously. “I’ve 
always been longing to travel, but I’ve never had the 
opportunity before.” 

“In that case,” he replied, “you have a treat in store 
for you. Paris is a wonderful city.” 

“It must be,” I agreed, and clasped my hands eagerly 
together. “Oh, I’m quite sure of that!” 

“For those who have the instinct to perceive its charms 
and the temperament to appreciate them, it has an extra¬ 
ordinary fascination.” 

Quite naturally, we turned and began to walk together 
along the deck. It didn’t occur to me that there was 
anything unusual in our behaviour, in our sudden plunge 
into the intimacy of established friendship. I felt in¬ 
stinctively at my ease with him, as though our introduc¬ 
tion had been brought about in an entirely conventional 
manner, as though in some way that I cannot explain 
we were not strangers in the ordinary sense of the word. 

As we paced the ship steadily from end to end we 
talked upon all manner of topics. We did not make con¬ 
versation. I was never conscious of deliberately think¬ 
ing of something to say, of hesitating over the choice of a 
subject. Words came from my lips as naturally as water 
from a spring. I talked to this broad-shouldered, blue- 


SPILLED WINE 


hi 


eyed Englishman, this man whose name even I did not 
know, with a freedom, a pleasure, an entire absence of 
self-consciousness such as I had never before experienced. 

I told him a great deal about myself. I spoke of the 
recent death of my parents, of my intention to live in 
Paris for a year to study life in general, of my desire to 
become a writer; in fact, now I come to think of it, I 
fancy I must have done far more of the talking than he, 
and all the while he listened with an air of flattering 
attention, an air of being genuinely interested in all that 
I was saying. 

“I suppose,” he commented at length, “it’s never oc¬ 
curred to you that you’re doing something rather—er— 
well, rather unusual, that you’re running a risk?” 

“A risk?” I repeated vaguely. 

“You tell me you’re only nineteen, and that you’re 
going to Paris with a girl friend who’s not much older 
than yourself, and that, otherwise, you’ll be quite alone?” 

“But we’ve got to live somewhere—and it will help 
us with our work.” 

“Yes, oh, yes, I’ve no doubt it’ll do that. But you’re 
very young, much too young to be running about the 
world on your own—and Paris isn’t London.” 

“I hope it isn’t. I hate London.” 

“It’s different in many ways.” 

“What sort of ways?” 

“Oh, heaps. It’s difficult to enumerate them all. For 
one thing you’ll be among strangers. You’ll be cutting 
yourself adrift from all your friends.” 

I shook my head. 

“The only friends I ever had were Alma and a man 
who’s now somewhere on the other side of the world.” 


112 


SPILLED WINE 


“Your relations, then?” 

“I haven’t a single one who’d ever bother whether I 
was alive or dead. You see, I’m quite on my own. I 
belong to myself and no one else. The only thing to be 
considered is my work. That matters tremendously.” 

He looked at me suddenly, intently, and then smiled. 

“How I envy you your enthusiasm!” he said. “But 
I think you’re wrong in putting ambition before every¬ 
thing. Don’t you yourself matter? Your personal 
happiness?” 

“I am happy—when I’m working.” 

“And if the time came when you weren’t—when work 
alone wasn’t sufficient?” 

“But it always will be. It will always come first. 
You see, I’m only a—a—an instrument, a medium, a 
—a sort of means to an end. So long as I’m a good 
artist I shall be satisfied.” 

“To that end you’re prepared to sacrifice everything?” 

“Of course. Why not?” 

He was silent a moment before continuing. 

“I wonder if you’ve really thought that out? If you 
have any idea what you may be pledging yourself to?” 

His tones had become so serious that I found myself 
searching his face with a sudden unaccountable anxiety. 

“But don’t you think I’m right?” I pleaded. 

Again he turned his head and seemed to probe me 
with the steady brilliance of his blue eyes. There was a 
moment’s pause before he said, “I—don’t know. It’s a 
difficult situation. If you were a man, I should know 
better what to say. You see, to achieve results such as 
you aim after one often has to pay very dearly—some¬ 
times too dearly.” 


SPILLED WINE 


113 

“But if one dosn’t mind paying?” 

We had paused in the prow of the ship and were lean¬ 
ing side by side over the railing, the damp salt breeze 
lashing full in our faces like the stinging battery of 
invisible whips. 

“If one doesn’t mind?” I insisted. 

Slowly my companion’s gaze travelled out over the 
blue-green waste of waters, a vague, yet concentrated ex¬ 
pression on his weather-bronzed features. 

“Some one else might mind for you,” he said at length. 
“You see, none of us ever really belong entirely to our¬ 
selves, however much we may think we do. As you get 
older-” 

He broke off suddenly, a flash of almost boyish excite¬ 
ment leaping into his face. 

“Look! There’s the coast of France!” he cried. “Over 
there—like a little whitish-grey line on the horizon! 
Somehow it never loses its fascination for me—that first 
glimpse.” 

I followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw 
the flat uninteresting coast of France loom slowly into 
view. For a moment we were both silent, then: 

“I suppose you’ve crossed lots of times?” I remarked 
enviously. 

“Oh yes, lots. More often than I could easily re¬ 
member.” 

“You know Paris well?” 

“Very well indeed.” 

“Then please won’t you tell me something about it?” 
I begged. 

He turned sideways so that he was no longer looking 
towards France. Putting both hands into his coat pock- 



SPILLED WINE 


114 

ets, he leant with one elbow upon the wooden railing and 
smiled indulgently down at me. 

“It’s rather difficult to do that off-hand/’ he began. 
“One could talk about it for hours and not do it justice, 
and you’ll soon be able to form your own impressions. 
. . . Perhaps I ought to warn you not to be disappointed 
if you don’t like it immediately you arrive. Personally 
I hated it at first, simply detested it for about three 
months, then—well, I don’t know how it happened, but 
she suddenly cast her spell over me, and I’ve never been 
able to get free from it since. It’s rather like the spell 
of the East, you know, quite different in a way and yet 
curiously the same. There’s the same vagueness, yet 
the same sense of distinct individuality, the same in¬ 
describable complexity of trifles. You can’t nail down 
any one thing, and say ‘this and this delights me.’ You 
simply don’t know. Sometimes I’ve thought it was just 
the smell of it—it has a smell you know absolutely dis¬ 
tinct from the smell of any other city—the gay-hearted 
camaraderie of the boulevards, the grisettes with their 
neat heads and pretty ankles, the flower girls selling 
lilac in January and roses in December, the caress of the 
sky on a spring night, the shameless abandon of its 
lovers, the oh je ne sais quoi! There simply isn’t any 
way of describing what I mean!” 

He broke off abruptly, his whole face alight with 
enthusiasm. For a moment he lost something of his 
habitual expression of calm Anglo-Saxon stolidity; then 
with a swift change of tone he went on again. 

“That is the pleasant side of Paris. But she has an 
ugly side as well, a trashy, hateful side. Often she stoops 
to the level of a cheap tragedy queen, a gutter harpy. 


SPILLED WINE 


US 

In that aspect avoid her like the plague. She’s a vampire 
that slowly sucks the sane blood of health out of the 
veins of her victims. She breeds folly and hysteria and 
loss of self-respect—especially in those who do not under¬ 
stand her ways, who have no means of gauging her 
treachery. She gives you a golden peach with a worm in 
the heart of it.” 

The last few sentences he had spoken with an air 
of one who soliloquizes with himself. Now, suddenly he 
seemed to remember my presence. He looked at me with 
something very like distress in his blue eyes. 

“If you were the ordinary little bread-and-butter Eng¬ 
lish miss, I shouldn’t dream of saying all this,” he 
apologized, “but something about you, I don’t know 
quite what it is, impresses me with the feeling that you 
are not one to be satisfied with half measures, that you 
are resolved at whatever cost to yourself to learn, to 
probe, to strip life bare of illusions. In that case / I’m 
afraid Paris may have much to teach you. She has a 
particularly pernicious habit of robbing youth of its 
faith in the best side of human nature. When you go 
to the Louvre look at Gleyre’s Les Illusions Perdus —and 
make up your mind to cling tight to your own. In the 
midst of new experiences, readjustments of ideas, hold 
fast to that little bit of Anglo-Saxon prudery you may 
be in danger of coming to despise. Don’t throw a single 
ideal overboard until you are quite sure that what you’re 
going to set up in its stead is something better. If I 
were your father, your guardian—but there! I doubt 
whether second-hand experience is ever any real good. 
One can’t graft old trees on to young roots.” 

And switching off on to a fresh subject he kept the 


n6 


SPILLED WINE 


conversation deliberately trained in paths of everyday 
conventionality until the boat had drawn up alongside 
the Calais landing-stage, and the passengers were pre¬ 
paring to disembark. 

Then I bade him a hurried “good-bye” and went in 
search of Alma. 

A little thrill ran down my spine as I stepped for the 
first time upon foreign soil. 

Everything interested me, the porters in their butcher- 
blue overalls and shapeless caps, the gesticulating of¬ 
ficials, the sprawling arrangement of the railway station, 
and finally the train itself, with its huge engine and high 
steps that were so awkward to climb. 

After much struggling and scrambling with hand lug¬ 
gage and several sporadic attempts to ask and receive 
instructions in French, we managed to secure seats in 
an over-heated first-class carriage, and prepared for the 
five hours’ journey to Paris. 

A little before three o’clock the train drew out of 
Calais and began its long rush southwards. 

After a while I found the steady rhythm of the wheels 
exciting me exactly as the throb of the ship’s engines 
had done. In spite of the somnolent condition to which 
the heat threatened to reduce me it was agony to sit 
still. So I got up and went out into the corridor, and 
there I ran once more—and this time with considerable 
physical violence—into my blue-eyed Englishman. 

“We seem fated to collide,” he laughed, and went on 
to ask me if we had managed to secure comfortable seats, 
and got all our luggage safely aboard. “I had intended 


SPILLED WINE 


117 

to help you,” he said, “but you vanished like a streak 
of lightning, and I couldn’t find you again.” 

I thanked him and said we had managed quite nicely. 

“I came out here,” I went on, “because the carriage 
was getting so unbearably hot. My friend’s gone to 
sleep, and I think I should have done the same in another 
minute.” 

He nodded. 

“Same here,” he replied. “That’s the worst of con¬ 
tinental travelling. The trains always are too hot. You 
wait till you have to travel in a carriage full of Germans 
eating liver and garlic sausage, and glaring at you like 
maniacs if you dare so much as suggest opening a win¬ 
dow.” 

“It doesn’t sound a very pleasant prospect,” I ad¬ 
mitted. 

“It’s not,” he assured me. “It’s the absolute limit. 
The French and Italians are nearly as muggy—but more 
polite. I’ve come to the conclusion that the English are 
the only race that really appreciates the value of fresh 
air.” 

And he went on to relate various amusing experiences 
to illustrate his belief. 

As we stood there chatting in the swaying corridor of 
the Calais-Paris express, miles upon miles of sand 
dunes and flat, scrubby scenery sliding past the windows 
like an endless cinema film, the short winter’s day merged 
rapidly into twilight and finally into complete darkness. 

At Amiens the train stopped for a few minutes and we 
managed to secure coffee and cakes. Then, with a shrill 
whistle, a grunting of wheels and a series of jerks, we 
plunged onwards once more into the night. 


n8 


SPILLED WINE 


Very few people disturbed us. I think most of them 
had by now succumbed to the languor of steam heat and 
humming wheels. I lost all notion of time. I was aware 
of little else beyond the vital, almost magnetic personal¬ 
ity of this fascinating stranger. I had an odd sensation 
of being quite alone with him, as though we had some¬ 
how got shut off into a little world of our own, stranded 
upon a magic island around which the material world 
lapped faintly like little waves on a muffled shore. 

I have only a very confused idea of what we talked 
4 about or rather we talked about so many things that 
they have all become inextricably mingled in my mind. 
I recollect that he gave me certain further advice and 
information about Paris and suggested various periodi¬ 
cals and newspapers that I ought to read in order to 
become quickly au courant with Parisian life and thought 
of the moment. 

“I expect you’ll soon get into the swim of things,” 
he said, “and I expect you’ll come across quite a number 
of English and Americans. I’ve heard the student quar¬ 
ters are particularly full of Americans just now.” 

He lapsed into silence, and for a while we both stared 
out at the twinkling lights of some village we seemed to 
be passing. Then: 

“In a way I envy you—tremendously,” he suddenly 
went on, his voice vibrating with a curious intensity. 
“You’re just setting out upon the Great Adventure. 
You’ve got all Life before you—and you have youth 
and health and ambition and talent with which to fight 
it. If you only knew how lucky you are! What you 
might do with it all—if you only stick to your guns— 
and Fate is kind! . . . and Fate is kind!” 


SPILLED WINE 


119 

In the flickering light of the oil lamps his eyes seemed 
to grow very gentle, very thoughtful as he added, “Ah, 
yes, if Fate is kind. I’m afraid she has altogether too 
big a say in the matter. She always seems to have an odd 
card up her sleeve. But sometimes she’s generous, some¬ 
times she lets us carry off the prize we’ve striven for. 
I’d love to watch you—every step of the way—an in¬ 
visible presence, you know. It would interest me in¬ 
tensely. But as that can’t be, perhaps—who knows?— 
we may meet again some day and you can tell me all 
about it!” 

He went on to speak of his regret at not being able to 
stay for a while in Paris, just to see us comfortably 
“settled in.” 

“But it’s impossible. I have to go straight through 
to Florence to meet my mother and sister—the latter is 
unfortunately an invalid and compelled to winter abroad 
—and take them on to Egypt. Egypt’s a wonderful place. 
You’ll love that too, some day.” 

I laughed. 

“You seem to take it for granted that I shall go there.” 

He nodded. 

“You probably will,” he replied. “It’s the sort of place 
that would appeal to you. If I were a writer, it’s the 
place I should choose to write about—that and India. 
There’s something about both those countries that seems 
to provoke all the hidden romance in one’s nature—even 
in the nature of such a prosaic Britisher as myself.” 

We got to Paris about eight o’clock in the evening. 

The soaring cavernous roof, the sulphurous glare of the 
arc lamps, the noise and bustle and strangeness of the 
Gare du Nord both fascinated and bewildered me. 



120 


SPILLED WINE 


We seemed ages getting through the customs, but at 
length the formalities were over and our various trunks 
and handbags, each bearing the white chalk mark of the 
official who had passed it, reposed upon a shabby, broken- 
down horse-cab in the station yard. 

With one foot already on the step I turned to say 
good-bye to my companion of the journey, the broad- 
shouldered, blue-eyed Englishman who, only a few short 
hours before, I had never even met, yet from whom I 
now found myself oddly reluctant to part. 

As he held my hand in his, I felt myself cling to it as 
to something solid and familiar amidst the sea of strange¬ 
ness that beat around me. I was conscious of a desire to 
say something more than the commonplace words of a 
farewell. But my tongue refused to obey me; my brain 
could suggest nothing but the most conventional and 
stilted sentences. At length: 

“Thank you so much—you’ve been very kind,” I 
mumbled inadequately. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s been a very great 
pleasure I’m sure. I only wish I had a few hours to 
spare that I could see you safely to your destination,” 
he replied. “I feel a sort of responsibility, you know, as 
though I oughtn’t to be leaving you like this, two young 
English girls alone in Paris. But I’m afraid I’ve no 
choice in the matter. My train leaves at ten o’clock for 
Marseilles. . . . I’ve enjoyed our talk immensely. I shall 
always remember it.” 

“And I too,” I protested, wrung with a sudden im¬ 
petuous regret. 

I felt that I wanted him to stay on in Paris—wanted 
it with an incredible urgency—that to be compelled to 


SPILLED WINE 


12 I 


part with him thus, even after so brief an acquaintance, 
was one of the greatest misfortunes that had ever befallen 
me. 

In a dazed condition I stumbled into the waiting fiacre 
and heard the door slam to behind me. As the cab moved 
slowly away among the congested vehicles my friend 
walked a few yards beside it, his hand resting upon the 
frame of the open window. 

“Don’t forget,” he counselled earnestly. “Work hard! 
Stick to your guns! Keep your faith bright—and look 
after yourself! Remember, one day you will count 
personally—to some one. . . . The future is in your own 
hands, and with all my heart I wish you luck! And now, 
little friend of an hour, good-bye, good-bye!” 

He fell back from the side of the cab, the cocker gath¬ 
ered his reins and cracked his whip, and we ambled out 
of the station yard into the streets of Paris. 

Paris! I was in Paris at last! But for the moment 
I could not interest myself in the fact. I could think of 
nothing but the penetrating blueness of the Stranger’s 
eyes, the pleasant sound of his voice, the firm comforting 
grip of his hand, and suddenly, with an almost paralysing 
effect, the thought flashed into my mind, “Why, I didn’t 
give him my address. I didn’t even tell him my name. 
And I don’t know his. I’ve lost him—lost him for ever. 
I shall never see him again.” 

I had a crazy impulse to stop the cab and drive back 
again. Only the fear of making myself ridiculous pre¬ 
vented me. 

“If he had wanted to know he would have asked me,” 
I told myself despondently, and sank back against the 
stale-smelling cushions, overpowered with a sudden con-* 
sciousness of deadly fatigue. 


CHAPTER IX 


M Y nameless Englishman’s warning that I might 
not like Paris at first was quite unnecessary. 
I loved it from the very outset. I loved everything about 
it, its streets and cafes and shops and people, its museums 
and churches and picture galleries, its delicious patisseries 
that cost only four sous a piece, and its dead-white, 
creamy butter—even the shapes of its loaves and the 
smell of its metros and the funny “toot-toot” of its lum¬ 
bering, old-fashioned trams. Compared with London it 
seemed brighter and cleaner and altogether jollier. The 
air was almost entirely free from fog and smoke. Five 
days out of six the sun spilled down out of clear, frosty 
skies like some scintillating amber wine, whilst the faces 
of the people one met in the streets were infinitely more 
cheerful than that of the average Londoner. 

Madame Gaumet’s pension in the rue Racine consisted 
of a tall five-storied house separated from the street by a 
stone-flagged courtyard, and a high wall, surmounted by 
iron railings. It had probably been built somewhere 
about the period of the Second Empire and within recent 
years each floor had been divided off into two small 
separate appartements. These “Madame,” a fat, pleas¬ 
ant-featured, greasy-haired woman of the Midi, let off 
either in single rooms or in complete suites, mostly to 
foreign art students staying in Paris. All meals could be 
taken in one large salle a manger on the ground floor 

122 


SPILLED WINE 


123 


or in the pensionnaire’s own rooms, according to arrange¬ 
ments, and the prices charged were, on the whole, ex¬ 
ceedingly reasonable. 

We could not have chosen a spot more conveniently 
situated for all purposes. It was in the very heart of the 
artists’ quarter, practically in the centre of Paris itself, 
and within walking distance of most places of special 
interest. 

For the first few days we gave ourselves up to the 
fascinating occupation of exploring the city. We visited 
the Louvre, the Luxembourg, the Champs Elysee, the 
rue de Rivoli, the Avenue de l’Opera, Notre Dame, the 
Madeleine and Sacre Cceur. We began to gain some 
idea of general locality. 

By the end of the first week we knew, at least by sight, 
most of the other inmates of the pension, whilst with one 
of them, an American sculptrice who had a studio on the 
top floor, we had already become fast friends. 

Gyp Hansard was a tall, boyish-looking young woman 
of twenty-six, with brown, short-cropped hair, a low, 
broad forehead and clear, cool grey eyes set very wide 
apart in a face of exceptional frankness and good hum¬ 
our. Her body had the supple uncorseted straightness 
of a Greek athlete and she moved with superb grace in 
clothes of a sack-like shapelessness. 

She seemed to take an instantaneous liking to both 
Alma and myself, and went out of her way to make us 
feel at home. Under her able tutelage I came rapidly 
to appreciate the new life that now opened before me. 
There began for me a period of profound mental change. 
I literally felt myself growing, felt the roots of my mind 
thrusting boldly out in all directions, taking hold of 


124 


SPILLED WINE 


things. And with a feverish eagerness I encouraged the 
process. I took French lessons with an old professor 
named Monsieur Briand; I joined a library and read 
avidly anything and everything I could get hold of, from 
Pierre Loti to Maupassant, from Zola to Alfred de Mus¬ 
set, and I went to every form of entertainment from 
Grand Opera to les Folies Bergeres. 

I had come to Paris with one clear and definite object 
in view—to learn. With every means in my power I 
meant to widen my knowledge of life. I meant to go 
about deliberately gathering impressions, storing “ideas.” 
I asked myself “How can I present life as a complex 
whole until I have first discovered what it is made of, 
until I have taken human nature to pieces like a machine 
and found out how it works?” 

As time went on this thirst for knowledge became 
insatiable, driving me to welcome all experience good or 
bad as so much definite gain. I felt like a youth who has 
vaulted an orchard gate and thinks himself free to gather 
all the fruit that grows therein—to eat to full repletion 
without harm to himself. “Because I do it in the name 
of Art,” I told myself, “no evil can come of it.” 

In this, of course, I made the fatal mistake, but there 
was no one to warn me of my error, and if there had been 
I should not have listened. 

Meanwhile Alma had joined one of Durien’s Art 
Classes, and was spending four mornings a week drawing 
from life in his studio off the Boulevard St. Michel. At 
other times she went on with her regular work of illustra¬ 
tion, which she continued to contribute to various English 
periodicals. 

On the whole, I think, she liked the life. She was 


SPILLED WINE 


125 

tremendously enthusiastic over the opportunity of in¬ 
creasing her knowledge of figure drawing and of being 
able to study under the personal supervision of one of the 
greatest masters of modern painting. But I don’t think 
Paris ever “got hold” of her as it got hold of me. It 
influenced her principally through the channels of art. 
It meant very little to her personally. Much that ap¬ 
pealed to me, that provoked the burning curiosity of my 
soul with an insatiable allure, left her supremely indif¬ 
ferent, or stirred her only to a vague mistrust. 

Spring came to Paris! Like a princess out of fairy¬ 
land she came, trailing her magic skirts through every 
street and park and open space of the city, spreading 
a sky of forget-me-not blue overhead, inserting a new 
lightness into the mincing step of the immaculate boule- 
vardier, dropping a fresh smile into the sparkling eyes of 
the little gay-hearted midinette. 

I had always imagined that to enjoy the spring thor¬ 
oughly one must of necessity be in the country. I now 
discovered that it was possible for her to be as delightful 
in a town as among her native hedgerows. Whenever I 
think of Paris it is invariably a Paris quivering beneath 
the first epanchement of an ardent April. In such a mood 
she turns the very heart of you to water. She woos your 
very soul to rapture. She is more adorable than any 
other city in Europe. 

By this time I had settled down very thoroughly into 
the life of the Quartier. I spoke French fairly well and 
with increasing fluency. I attended regular lectures at 
the Sorbonne. I had visited practically every museum 


126 


SPILLED WINE 


and public building in the city, and I had made a large 
circle of interesting and varied acquaintances. 

Among the latter were faithfully represented all the 
different types that romance invariably associates with 
the students’ quarters of Paris—long-haired and short- 
haired, picturesque and dowdy, clever and foolish, ener¬ 
getic and lazy, the striving genius and the philandering 
amateur, the dreamy zealot and the passionate crank— 
any and every sort of human species that one can con¬ 
ceive as indigenous to the motley crowd of a modern 
Bohemia. 

They met frequently and with much genial good- 
fellowship in Gyp’s top-floor studio. 

Ah! How well I remember these riotous gatherings— 
so droll, so piquant, so slangy, so full of the vital, quiv¬ 
ering essence of spontaneity and joie de vivrel When 
Pierre Lejeune played the piano and Herr Hartemann 
sang sentimental ballads, when Rosa Parkhurst delighted 
us with dainty English lyrics and Andre Marard with 
lilting amorous ditties from the latest Parisian revues , 
when we ate sandwiches of patt de joie gras and babas 
and madeleines and savarines and jellies and pralines 
and marrons glaces, and drank bock and coffee and 
anisette —and all talked at once at the tops of our eager 
young voices! 

How clearly it all comes back to me, every detail of 
that careless happy scene! I have but to close my eyes 
for an instant to see Sacha Karsavin sweeping his long, 
thick hair back from his heavy brows, and Andre’s droll 
smile as he tells one of his inimitable funny stories, and 
’Liette’s little wistful face as she sips the liquor she is 
already too fond of, and Freddy Furgerson’s grotesquely 


SPILLED WINE 


127 


twitching limbs as he dances an impromptu pas seul in 
the midst of the smoke-filled room. Most vividly of all 
I see Gyp—Gyp moving swiftly among her chattering 
guests, her tall, straight body moving gracefully in its 
simple gown of dark material trimmed with crimson 
beads that cluster like juniper berries about her throat 
and wrists. Her grey eyes are like a benediction, her 
big white teeth smile happily. She is the life and soul 
of the whole party, and there is not a person present 
who does not regard her with genuine affection. 

I grew very fond of Gyp. There was something amaz¬ 
ingly refreshing about her. Her candour had a peculiar 
charm of its own. When she came into the room it was 
as though a clean cool breeze had blown in with her. 
She had an air of looking life very firmly and squarely 
in the face. Of seeing all its foibles and infirmities and 
then, in the bigness of her heart, forgiving them all. I 
think she found something lovable in the least worthy 
of her fellow creatures. To her there was no such thing 
as vice, there were merely human failings and complexi¬ 
ties, twists and kinks, in the moral world which I think 
appealed to her mental vision very much as a cripple 
would have appealed to her physical. She regarded de¬ 
pravity of the mind exactly as a physician regards the 
diseases of the body; she brought to it the same broad 
understanding, the same generous kindly judgments. 

“Some souls simply aren’t strong on their legs,” she 
would say. “They make mistakes—tumble into difficul¬ 
ties that others would avoid quite naturally. It’s not 
our place to censor them—only to help them. It’s only 
luck that we aren’t in exactly the same position. A man 
can’t be blamed for having an imperfect moral sense 


128 


SPILLED WINE 


any more than he can be blamed for having rickets. IPs 
just a misfortune, voila tout!” 

I had many interesting talks with Gyp, discussions that 
ranged over every gamut of human emotion and artistic 
endeavour. I found her amazingly sympathetic and 
full of sound, common-sense judgments. Her mind 
seemed able to embrace a subject like a ray of light, to 
flow over and round it like water. She had a man’s 
broad, impersonal way of looking at things. 

One afternoon we sat together on the terrace at St. 
Cloud, looking down upon the whole of Paris as it lay 
spread out like some shimmering dream-city at our feet. 
We had been talking very earnestly of the problems of 
everyday life in their relationship to art. I had been 
speaking as usual of my desire for knowledge, my thirst 
after experience. 

“I want to be a realist,” I said, “but not the sort of 
realist that Zola was—or Turgenieff. There’s just as 
much truth in a field of bluebells as in a dustbin of 
rotting cabbage. I want to present life as it really is. I 
want to get the bluebells and the dustbin in correct 
proportions. I want, if possible, to be absolutely un¬ 
biased. It’s so easy to go to extremes, to strain after 
effect by exaggeration.” 

With her calm grey eyes fixed full upon my face she 
nodded. 

“You’re right,” she said. “Half the artists of the 
present day are trying to draw attention to themselves 
and their art by just exactly the methods you describe— 
exaggeration—or even rank falsification. I suppose they 
go upon the principle that you can provoke a jaded 


SPILLED WINE 


129 


appetite with pickles and bitter ale when you can’t with 
plain honest fare. Hence the Cubists! But I’m not 
sure that they don’t defeat their own object in the end, 
for after all there’s nothing in the world so fascinating, 
so hideous, so terrifying and so beautiful as real life. 
Truth is stranger than fiction every time, whatever any¬ 
one may say to the contrary!” 

With a little gust of excited agreement I clasped my 
hands together in my lap. 

“I’m so glad you think that too,” I cried. “I’ve al¬ 
ways felt it. I feel it more and more every day. The 
trouble is that in order to live up to it—as a writer— 
one would always have to be experimenting, making tests. 
Second-hand knowledge isn’t any good. One would have 
to have felt, personally, every emotion and sensation that 
one wanted to make one’s characters feel, which would 
mean that one wouldn’t be able to do one’s best work 
until one was quite old.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” answered Gyp, “every 
age has its own peculiar range of experiences. One would 
simply have to stick to what one did understand. To 
write convincingly about a few subjects is better than to 
write ignorantly about many.” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” I agreed, “but at present I 
can’t honestly say that I understand anything—not even 
fundamentals. I don’t think I’ve yet known what it was 
to be really hungry—or ill—or terrified. I’ve never seen 
anyone die—I’ve never seen anyone born. I’ve never 
hated anyone. I’ve never been jealous. I’ve never been 
in love. I know what it is to be tremendously ambitious, 
to look at a sunset and feel filled with awe, to lie awake 
at night and feel my soul seethe with nameless desires and 


130 


SPILLED WINE 


longings, but you can’t make novels out of that. Psycho¬ 
logically my mind is an empty picture-gallery waiting to 
be filled. I’m trying to build houses without bricks— 
without a foundation even.” 

Again Gyp nodded. 

“I understand,” she said, “I understand exactly. I’ve 
felt the same myself—in a different way. But instead 
of making me long for ‘experiences’ it sent me hot-foot 
to the anatomical museums to study skeletons. Bones, 
every little twist and turn of the human body, and of 
animals also for that matter, have a fascination for me 
which is quite extraordinary. They positively thrill me. 
When I’m at work on the curve of a breast, the sweep of 
a thigh, the beautiful, muscular lines of a throat, I’m 
thinking all the time of the bony structure beneath, and 
because I know it so well, my work is good, faithful to 
nature. One can idealize, of course, one does, but one 
must first get hold of realities, ‘fundamentals’ as you 
call them. That I’m sure is how you feel about your 
writing. Something inside you—the artist in your soul— 
revolts at the idea of being untruthful, of being ignorant. 
When you write a thing you want to be quite sure of your 
facts. Isn’t that it?” 

The clasp of my fingers tightened. My gaze swam 
out to the furthest shining pinnacle of sun-bathed Paris. 
I felt a tingling in my veins, a pleasant thrill at finding 
myself so well understood. 

“Yes—yes!” I whispered. “Just that. Just exactly 
that! It’s a sort of instinct, an obsession, the sort of 
feeling I should think a gambler must have, only harm¬ 
less, thank goodness.” 

“Harmless?” Again Gyp’s grey eyes were fixed in- 


SPILLED WINE 


131 

quiringly on mine. “Harmless? I’m not so sure about 
that. I knew a poet once, a young Armenian boy of nine¬ 
teen, who wanted to understand the effects of absinthe, 
because he was writing a tragedy about an absinthe- 
drinker. The tragedy was never written. He lived it in¬ 
stead—drank himself to death within four months of the 
night he first ‘experimented’! . . . And I’ve known other 
cases. Two years ago there was an artist named Jean 
Ferron, who had a studio in the rue Chardon-Lagache. 
He was painting a picture of a drowned woman, and in 
order to get the peculiar, greenish-grey tint of the flesh, 
he made his model pose in a cold studio in December 
without a fire. The girl contracted a chill, developed 
consumption and died, but before that happened Jean 
Ferron had fallen in love with her. After her death he 
vanished from Paris and no one seems to have heard of 
him since—though he was a very promising artist. So 
you see there is danger—even in following Truth, if one 
does it recklessly.” 

There was a pause of several moments before she went 
on: 

“You said just now that you had never been in love. 
I never have myself. I don’t think I ever shall. Some¬ 
times I wonder if I am abnormal in that respect, ‘un- 
sexed,’ but I’ve seen enough of it to realize its dangers— 
especially to such a temperament as yours. You’re very 
young and quite undisciplined, and there’s something 
about you—it’s difficult to say exactly what it is—which 
is amazingly attractive. Perhaps it’s just your ‘alive- 
ness,’ your physical and mental eagerness—I don’t know. 
I’ve been watching you ever since you came, but yours 
is one of those rare cases of magnetism that baffle 


132 


SPILLED WINE 


analysis. But the fact remains that it’s there, and that 
it’s bound to attract men, all sorts and conditions of men, 
and that if you want to retain your independence—your 
usefulness as an artist—you must be very careful how 
you let yourself be attracted in return. I’m not preach¬ 
ing. I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing. I’m merely 
warning you. If you were just an ordinary girl with an 
ordinary talent, I wouldn’t say anything about it, but 
because I have a feeling that you’re one day going to 
do good work, I’d like to warn you not to let anything 
get in the way and spoil your chances, clog your energies. 
If you were like me where men are concerned, you’d 
be all right. But you’re not. You’ve got more of—of 
that sort of thing in your little finger than I have in my 
whole body, and it’ll need careful watching if it’s not, 
eventually, to lead you into entanglements you’ll be sorry 
for afterwards.” 

She broke off, was silent for a while, and then added: 

“I hope you don’t mind my saying all this? It’s cheek, 
I know, but it’s only because I’d genuinely like to help 
you if I could.” 

Impulsively I took her hand. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” I said. “It’s interesting 
and it’s probably all true. I’ve begun to suspect lately 
that I might be capable of—oh, all sorts of mad things— 
if the provocation were strong enough. The trouble is 
that I should probably still do them even if I realized at 
the time they were mad, because—well simply because, 
they would be 'experiences’ you see?” I sighed, got up 
from the low stone wall on which we were sitting, and 
gave a little cat-like yawn. “But one thing I’m certain of, 
nothing shall ever interfere with my work, in fact every- 


SPILLED WINE 


133 


thing shall serve it. Whatever happens to me I shall 
merely pigeon-hole as so much valuable ‘copy.’ I shan’t 
feel that anything is ever really personal, but only sub¬ 
ject matter to write about.” 

Gyp stood up beside me, slipped an arm through mine, 
and began to walk slowly beside me along the gravelled 
terrace. 

“If only one could look ahead! If one could only be 
sure!” she mused. 

“I am,” I said. 

“If you weren’t quite so young!” 

“I’m getting older every day.” 

“But it’ll be years before you’re really out of danger.” 

At that I laughed. “Anyone would think you were 
eighty-six instead of twenty-six,” I teased. “But you’re 
a dear—so I’ll forgive you.” 


CHAPTER X 


F OREMOST among those things of which, as a fu¬ 
ture novelist, I had decided it was necessary for 
me to have a clear understanding, came “sex” and all 
matters connected with it. 

My knowledge of the physical facts of life had always 
been fairly large. I can’t remember when or by what 
means they were first revealed to me. They came, I 
suppose, as they come to the vast majority of young 
people whose parents systematically shirk their respon¬ 
sibilities in this matter—through the muddy channels of 
innuendo and surmise. 

At an early age I seemed to be perfectly well aware 
that the stories of the gooseberry bush and the doctor’s 
bag were foolish fabrications of incredibly stupid adults 
and that, for some reason that I could not fathom, my 
mother was intensely ashamed of the method by which 
she had brought me into the world. Later on had come 
a period of rather sickly sentimentality, during which 
the actual facts had been draped and distorted in a mass 
of pseudo-romance, and finally, the instinctive rather 
contemptuous turning aside to a broader and more 
healthy view of life. 

The episode of Martin’s brief love-making on the 
Margate beach two years before had not helped me very 
much. Before it had had time to work any change in 
me it had already begun to fade from my memory. 

134 


SPILLED WINE 


135 


Now abruptly I found myself in Paris, breathing an 
atmosphere that appeared to be literally impregnated 
with the ever-present consciousness of sex and sex at¬ 
traction. It made itself felt in practically every phase 
of daily existence. Novels and plays and songs and 
pictures, even newspapers and shop windows, were sat¬ 
urated with its influence as a preserved fruit is saturated 
with sugar. It looked at one out of the eyes of the 
men and women one met in the streets. One caught 
echoes of it in the scraps of conversation one overheard 
in cafes and dancing halls. One saw couples openly 
embracing, saw the sudden reciprocal flame of passion 
brazenly flaunted. It was something so dominating, so 
omnipresent, that one simply could not ignore it. 

To begin with it merely embarrassed me, then it in¬ 
terested me, then, insidiously, it began to react upon 
my Anglo-Saxon point of view. Somewhere, deep hidden 
in the secret nerve centres of my being, it began to ex¬ 
cite a vague, tantalizing response, a “something” that I 
could not define but which affected my thoughts in a very 
curious manner. I began to grow restless, to throw my¬ 
self more and more wildly into superficial amusements, to 
hunt fresh sensations with a feverish avidity. 

Every young person who has lived in Paris under nor¬ 
mal conditions has experienced the powerful attraction 
of its night-life, its glamour and novelty and fever, its 
subtle appeal to the emotions, its stimulating effect upon 
the imagination. To a girl of nineteen, unhampered by 
any restrictions, brimming over with curiosity and the 
desire to investigate, stung with the hidden urgencies of 
uncomprehended instincts, the result was a foregone con¬ 
clusion. Almost before I was aware of it I found myself 


SPILLED WINE 


136 

swept into the vortex of wanton frivolity, indulging in 
every form of pleasure that presented itself, deliberately 
flirting with danger under the impression that I was 
gaining invaluable experience. 

“If I’m to be a successful writer, it’s clearly necessary 
that I should understand all about this ‘love business,’ ” 
I told myself, in very much the same way that one might 
say, “If I’m to be an architect I must understand all 
about drains.” 

Of all the various emotions that went to make up that 
complex thing “human psychology” sexual love was 
obviously the most important. All writers from time 
immemorial testified to this fact. One had but to glance 
at any history book to gather something of its far- 
reaching effect upon civilization. Very well then, since 
it played such a prominent part in all human affairs, 
would probably prove the pivot upon which every story 
I ever wrote would turn, wasn’t it clearly my business 
to set about investigating it without delay? 

Opportunities for doing so were not difficult to seek. 
Among the crowd of irresponsible Bohemians with whom 
I now found myself surrounded were plenty of amorous 
young males only too eager to pluck the evanescent 
flowers of capricious philandering, or even of a genuine 
but usually short-lived passion. 

I found that Gyp was quite right in her estimation of 
my power to attract men. I found that I had to exert 
but the smallest effort to have them gravitate eagerly 
towards me. I began to experience the peculiar, intoxi¬ 
cating triumph that comes to every woman when she 
first awakens to the subtle realization of her sex-power. 

I have taken particular pains to make it quite clear 


SPILLED WINE 


137 

that I had no claims to conventional beauty. As a child 
I had been considered definitely ugly, but I think this 
was principally due to the fact that the people among 
whom I lived were unable to appreciate my particular 
“type.” I had slanting, un-English-looking eyes, wide¬ 
winged, tilted nostrils, a well-shaped but rather large 
mouth, and a chin that was too pronounced for a girl. 

From earliest childhood I had been accustomed to hear 
myself described as “queer” and “odd,” until I had come 
at length to be sensitively conscious of my ill-favoured 
appearance. Now, within a short while of my arrival in 
Paris, all that was changed. I found myself pronounced 
“piquante,” “originate,” “avec une beaute du diable” 
Men made sketches of me in cafes and studios and paid 
me extravagant compliments with an effect of sincerity 
that both bewildered and delighted me. 

“Any woman can be beautiful after a set pattern,” 
one of them once told me. “But not many women can 
defy every recognized law of classic perfection and still 
be— ravissante” 

For the first time in my life I began to take an interest 
in my appearance, to cultivate deliberately a style of 
dress and carriage that would show up my peculiar 
“points” to the best advantage. And in a surprisingly 
short time my whole outward self had undergone a re¬ 
markable transformation, had taken on an air of indi¬ 
viduality, that indescribable “allure” which has nothing 
whatever to do with the regularity of feature or perfec¬ 
tion of colouring. 

My hair, which had never grown long, but which had 
always been abundantly thick and curly and of a dark 
burnished brown, I had cut to the length which is now 


SPILLED WINE 


138 

universally described as “bobbed,” but which in 1910— 
outside of strictly Bohemian circles—was looked upon 
as decidedly original. It suited me to perfection and 
added a new note of emphasis to an already engaging 
ensemble. I affected black, certain shades of pink, vary¬ 
ing from carnation to rose-madder, and certain rich tones 
of peacock-blue which I discovered had the effect of 
bringing out unexpected metallic lights in my hair. In 
short, I cast the chrysalis of my ugly childhood and 
crept forth an unusually attractive and fully conscious 
butterfly. 

My would-be lovers were mostly young and romantic 
and drawn from those nations to whom love-making is 
as much a part of daily life as eating or smoking or 
drinking coffee. And many of them were quite good 
sorts au fond, not nearly as vicious as one might super¬ 
ficially have been led to suppose. 

They wooed me in various ways, sometimes with frank 
audacity, sometimes with Machiavellian subtlety, some¬ 
times with an almost child-like simplicity; and all the 
while I played a fine cat-and-mouse game, holding them 
always just at arms’ length, but supplying sufficient en¬ 
couragement to keep their infatuation at fever heat. 

I don’t attempt to justify my conduct. I merely state 
it with absolute honesty. To all intents and purposes, 
if not in actual fact, I was a wanton, a harlot using the 
power of sex for my own ends, deliberately enflaming 
the passions of men that I might study the effect it had 
upon them, their behaviour under its influence. I went 
with them to theatres and music halls, to cafes and 
dancing-places, to any and every sort of frivolous enter¬ 
tainment that Paris knows so well how to provide. And 


SPILLED WINE 


139 

all the while I didn’t know whether I enjoyed what I 
was doing or detested it. It excited me, interested me, 
filled me with an extraordinary eagerness to write about 
it all. It was as though half of me stood aside watching 
with dumb amazement what the other half did. 

I began to keep a diary. Often when I returned home 
at two or three or four o’clock in the morning I would 
sit writing for hours, pouring down my impressions upon 
paper while they were still hot. I have those notes still. 
They are like the vivid, reckless confessions of a twin 
soul that once co-habited with my own and then died. 

The loss of illusions, the entire change of outlook, of 
which the Stranger had warned me, followed rapidly. 

Paris is a wizard. She has a way of twisting one’s 
very moral fibre. There is a queer hypnotizing glamour 
about her, something that insidiously loosens one’s hold 
on all previously cherished principles. Things that once 
had mattered so much come to matter so little. Things 
from which, formerly, we should have shrunk in dismay 
become idealized out of recognition. We begin to look 
back upon our past selves, before we had quaffed the 
magic potion that Paris holds to our lips, as incredibly 
priggish, slow-witted, dull. Reluctantly at first, maybe 
with many a backward glance, an uncomfortable pricking 
of the conscience, we begin to dance the mad dance of 
reckless, feckless youth, to follow Pan down the primrose 
path of self-indulgence, living solely for the pleasure of 
the moment, the gratification of each new-born desire. 

In the end I think both Gyp and Alma became alarmed 
for my safety. 

“Why,” the latter would remonstrate, “do you go to 


140 


SPILLED WINE 


such places? What enjoyment can you get out of them? 
It’s all so—oh, so tawdry, vulgar, beastly.” 

To which I would sententiously reply, “But, my dear 
Alma, it’s human nature—Parisian human nature, any¬ 
way—and if human nature is tawdry and vulgar, well it’s 
just as well to realize the fact.” 

“I can’t see that at all,” she would protest, “I may 
be too English, or too strait-laced, I don’t know which, 
but I must admit that such places as the Moulin Rouge 
and the Bal Tabarin don’t appeal to me in the least. 
They’re not even amusing—and they seem such waste 
of time.” 

“But how can it be waste of time when I’m learning 
something?” 

“But are you? Are you sure you aren’t deluding 
yourself, being carried away by a sort of glamour, in¬ 
toxicated with a—a sort of licentiousness, something 
that’s just appealing to the worst side of you, a sort of 
low curiosity?” 

“You can call it curiosity if you like. I prefer to 
call it the desire for knowledge.” 

“But, Ann dear, is such knowledge necessary?” 

“All knowledge is necessary. A novelist can’t afford 
to ignore anything.” 

“But, after all, it’s only a very small part of life.” 

“I’m not so sure of that, and in any case it’s the 
key to a very much bigger part. One can’t make a 
successful cake without all the ingredients. The spice 
may be the smallest of the lot actually—but if you leave 
it out, you alter the whole flavour.” 

“But all cakes don’t need to have spice.” 

“But some do. I can’t limit myself to ‘Madeiras’ 


SPILLED WINE 


141 

and ‘plain lunches’ you know. I shan’t be a qualified 
cook if I can’t tackle the whole range.” 

And then she would shake her head at me, smile a 
trifle hopelessly, and say, “My dear Ann, you’re a per¬ 
fectly impossible person, and I can’t argue with you. 
But all the same, I feel I’m right, and you’re wrong— 
and that one day you’ll agree with me.” 

Gyp used my intellectual vanity as the lever of reason. 

“I’ve always maintained, and I do still, that no one has 
the right to interfere with the private affairs of anyone 
else,” she said to me, “but friendship has privileges, and 
for once I’m going to break my rule. I think you’re 
behaving very foolishly. I don’t suppose you have the 
least idea how foolishly. This playing with fire, this 
hunting after excitement, it’s all utterly misleading. It 
isn’t giving you any real knowledge, any real insight 
into life. It’s like froth on the top of champagne, nothing 
more, but if you aren’t very careful it may do you a lot 
of harm. It isn’t your fault. You’re the sort of girl 
nature makes dangerous. But I hoped you were too 
much in earnest, too mentally solid to go chasing after 
bubbles in the way you seem to be doing.” 

We were curled together in the window-seat of her 
studio looking towards the Luxembourg Gardens, from 
whence came the sound of a band and a faint tinkling of 
children’s voices. 

For a while I did not answer. I felt irritated, but I 
knew perfectly well that I had no justification for feeling 
so. 

“I don’t think,” I answered presently, “that you really 
understand me as well as—as I used to think you did.” 

“If I’m doing you an injustice, I’m sorry,” she said. 


142 


SPILLED WINE 


“I hate the thought of you getting a distorted cynical 
view of life that will prejudice your work later on.’’ 

I shrugged my shoulders impatiently, my sense of irri¬ 
tation deepening. 

“You seem to look upon me as an empty-headed child,” 
I protested resentfully, “and you judge my art from 
the point of view of yours—which is absurd, because 
they both demand totally different treatment. Yours is 
quite impersonal, mine is the most personal of all. Yours 
deals with plaster and marble, mine in flesh and blood 
and emotions. As I’ve told you before, I’ve got first to 
feel myself, what I intend to make my characters feel! 
No one can pretend that sex—the relationship of men 
and women —Vamour as the French just simply call it— 
isn’t the most vital, the most important thing in life. 
One might call it the hinge upon which the whole of the 
rest of existence swings. Not to acknowledge this is ab¬ 
surd. The fact that it has unpleasant aspects—that it 
can be vicious and obscene as well as beautiful and ro¬ 
mantic—only adds to its interest. I don’t believe in be¬ 
ing an ostrich, in hiding my head in the sand and refusing 
to acknowledge the existence of things that are absolutely 
necessary to a true understanding of human society. It’s 
the principle of the bluebells and the dustbin I tried to 
explain to you that day at St. Cloud. Don’t you see?” 

She continued to look at me thoughtfully, her firm 
boyish chin resting on the backs of her clasped hands. 

“If you were ten years older,” she said, “I wouldn’t 
be afraid for you. You would sail through the rocks and 
shoals of Paris—this reckless, profligate bit of Paris,” 
and she waved her arm in a vague semi-circle, “without 
the slightest danger. Your opinions and convictions, 


SPILLED WINE 


i43 

your judgments of mankind in general, would be fixed 
and would probably only suffer the mildest of modifica¬ 
tions. As it is, you have just arrived at the most vital 
and impressionable period of your life. Your whole 
character is plastic, like clay on the wheel; anything 
might happen to it! The fact that, so far, you have 
escaped, is nothing. At any moment the tables may 
be reversed. You may be the victim. I’ve seen it so 
many times. I’ve seen how merciless this game you’re 
playing may become. ... If you were my sister I 
should do my utmost to try and persuade you to go back 
to England.” 

I shook my head and stared stubbornly out of the 
window in the direction of the music. 

“I’m not going to run away,” I declared firmly. “What¬ 
ever you say I’m not going to do that.” 

I broke off, paused for a moment, and then added with 
a little, rather forced laugh: 

“You remind me of Sister Ann trying to persuade 
Fatima not to open the door of the Chamber of Horrors. 
But it’s not a bit of good. I mean to do it—though 
without losing my own head in consequence.” 

I fancy that my letters to Martin just about that time 
must have borne eloquent testimony to the change in 
my moral outlook. Things that I wrote, though they 
have now vanished completely out of my mind, must 
have alarmed him seriously. This is part of one of his 
replies written somewhere about the end of July. 

“My dear Ann, what has come over you? I scarcely 
recognize you. Save for the handwriting, I should find 
difficulty in believing that the last few letters are really 


144 


SPILLED WINE 


from you. They are so cynical, so worldly-wise, and 
sometimes so reckless. How it makes me long to be with 
you, to protect you from the dangers which I dimly sus¬ 
pect must be threatening you! ... You are so fine, so 
frank, so contemptuous of cheapness and insincerity! 
Don’t let anything spoil you! I’m afraid your sym¬ 
pathies are to blame, your warm-hearted emotionalism. 
It’s leading you astray, breaking down your sane, com¬ 
mon-sense judgments. You were always so generous to 
the faults of others. Don’t be too generous. Don’t lose 
your sense of balance. Don’t lose your faith in the 
fundamental decency of human nature. One of the things 
I have always so much admired in you was your clear¬ 
ness of vision, your honesty, your complete freedom from 
sentimental hysteria. Oh, my dear, hang on to that for 
all you’re worth! I don’t fear for you personally, be¬ 
cause you are so essentially strong. But I would like to 
save you if possible the pain of realizing that you had 
made a mistake. I don’t want you at any future time 
to have to look back at your present state of mind with 
even the faintest tinge of regret. I want to think of you 
always as the ‘Ann’ of that wonderful holiday among 
the Surrey hills! ... If only I weren’t so far away 
from you! . . . Perhaps I’m foolish to feel anxious about 
you, but, darling, you know the reason. You know how 
much you mean to me, how jealous I am of your happi¬ 
ness and welfare. ... If I have said more than I have 
any right to say—forgive me.” 

Towards the end of June Paris grew unbearably hot. 
The fountains ceased to play in the public places. The 
shrubs in the gardens grew parched and limp. Even the 
Bois became an arid waste of dust-coated trees and 


SPILLED WINE 


i45 

bleached white roads. Finally every Parisian who was 
able to do so packed up and departed into the surround¬ 
ing country, or to the distant coast, leaving the city a 
panting, sluggish desert, given over to the doubtful en¬ 
joyment of Cook’s tourists or other ill-advised sightseers. 

During the first week in July Gyp went off for a walk¬ 
ing tour with some American friends through the Aus¬ 
trian Tyrol, and Alma and I, after careful consideration, 
decided on a holiday in Brittany. 

We began with Mont St. Michel, and made our way 
in a pleasant rambling fashion along the coast, pausing 
when we felt ourselves attracted by any particular spot, 
going on when our interest became exhausted. 

In course of time we came to a little fishing village 
called Binic, and here we spent six delightful dreamy 
weeks. 

I had been reading Pierre Loti’s “Pecheur d’Islande,” 
and I think this may partly account for the peculiar 
charm which the place had for me. We rented a room 
over a little wineshop facing the sea, and each day we 
explored along the coast in either direction, padding 
barefooted in the flat sand, climbing the rugged rocks, 
drinking in the savage beauty of the surrounding scenery 
with a never-ending delight. 

It was as though the keen salt breath of the sea, the 
luscious scent of the apple orchards, the very austerity 
of the great jagged hills and towering cliffs of Brittany 
brought a new peace to my restless spirit, a healing to my 
fevered brain. The insidious appeal of artificiality died 
away under the wide arch of heaven. I heard the song 
of the fishermen at their nets, the simple chatter of the 
peasant women as they washed their clothes in the purling 


SPILLED WINE 


146 

river, the cry of the seagull as it whirled against the sky 
T —and the syren call of the city died away like the raucous 
scream of a witch. I looked into the dewy eyes of Nature 
and found her virgin-pure. The world had once again 
become a clean and healthy place, purged of the compli¬ 
cated passions of cafe and dancing hall. 

Once again my attitude of mind must have reflected 
itself in my letters to Martin, for in reply to one of mine 
he wrote: 

“Pm glad you’ve left Paris for a while. I think what 
you were suffering from was an over-dose of artificiality 
and, for the warping influence of towns, there is so anti¬ 
dote like the open country. It’s just as if our spirits had 
been let out of a cage. . . . D’you remember that holi¬ 
day at Hindhead? How often I find my thoughts stray¬ 
ing back to it—to that wonderful week of vagabondage 
among the hills and dales of dear old England. How 
lovely it all was! I think of it still with a sort of rev¬ 
erence—a tenderness that sometimes becomes almost a 
pain. I long to be back there again, lying among the 
gorse and the whortleberries, on that far-away Surrey 
hill-side, watching the sunset and—all unconsciously— 
falling in love with you. What a delightful companion 
you were! Just at the cross-roads where girlhood and 
womanhood meet. You know, it’s funny, but I never 
used to think of you as pretty. I never used to think of 
your body at all. It’s only in retrospect that I realize 
how attractive you were. I suppose, subconsciously, I 
admired you all the time without knowing it. There are 
so many things which, comparing you with other women, 
I now realize were exceptional and delightful. Your way 
of walking for instance! I can picture you coming to- 


SPILLED WINE 


T 47 

wards me with a sort of gliding swing, absolutely grace¬ 
ful yet eager and jolly and vital as if the sheer act of 
walking were a very great pleasure. And your head 
thrown well back and tousled with curls like a gipsy’s! 
And what lovely hands and feet you have! Even among 
Spanish women who are supposed to be noted for such 
things I have not found their equal, though I once saw 
some that reminded me of yours. They were the hands 
and feet of a little half-caste Cingalese dancing girl. I 
don’t know what one could say of your eyes. They have 
a charm of their own which I’m sure have nothing to do 
with the colour or shape or anything one could actually 
define. One of them, the left one, has a big brown spot 
just near the rim of the iris. Perhaps that is what gives 
them their odd look—and they’re slanting, like an Ori¬ 
ental’s. . . . Strange how such little details about you 
keep recurring to my mind—things I wasn’t aware of ever 
having noticed. For instance, there is a tiny mole at the 
nape of your neck, just where two curls part, and another 
on your right wrist. And you have a minute white scar 
on one of your temples! All these things seem beautiful 
to me now—beautiful and distinctive—things that belong 
to you and to no one else, that mark you out from every 
other woman in the world. To me they are inexpressibly 
dear. I would not exchange them for the loveliness of 
Venus herself!” 

These letters from Martin continued to afford me un¬ 
diminished pleasure. They poured oil upon the flame 
of my self-esteem, and kept a warm place in my heart 
for the writer. What was going to be the end of our 
friendship I did not permit myself to seriously consider. 
The disquieting thought that he would one day expect 


SPILLED WINE 


148 

me to marry him, I thrust deliberately out of my mind. 

“When I explain to him that I don’t want to marry 
him, he’ll be sensible,” I reasoned. “He’ll be content to 
just go on being my very dear friend. There have been 
instances of friendships between men and women lasting 
a lifetime. Why shouldn’t it be like that with us?” 

The extreme selfishness of this point of view did not 
occur to me. In the egotism of my youth I did not 
think it unnatural that Martin should thus be willing to 
sacrifice himself eternally for my pleasure. 


CHAPTER XI 


T HAT holiday in Brittany blew away most of the 
mental cobwebs, the cloying unhealthy ideas that 
had begun to wrap themselves about me. I came back 
to Paris refreshed in body and spirit, determined to cling 
firmly to my new-found sanity, to allow myself no longer 
to be the prey of neurotic influences. 

I turned my back deliberately upon amorous adven¬ 
ture. I joined classes, and attended lectures for the 
study of such subjects as history, metaphysics, literature, 
the drama, philosophy. I altered the nature of my read¬ 
ing, cutting out the cheap loose novels of the moment in 
favour of a more strictly classical course. And I decided 
to work. I aimed at nothing elaborate, merely at a few 
light sketches of Parisian life, simple, spontaneous, real¬ 
istic. I wanted to store away impressions as a squirrel 
stores away nuts. I had no special intention of publish¬ 
ing what I wrote. 

For the first week or so things went rather well. Then, 
just as I was beginning to feel the earth solid beneath 
my feet, when existence had once more reclothed itself 
in reasoned symmetry, fallen beautifully into lines of 
unemotional logic, everything went wildly wrong again. 
The intoxicating atmosphere of Paris mounted once more 
into my head, crumbling my good intentions to dust, 
flinging common sense contemptuously aside, turning my 
will to water in my breast. 


149 


SPILLED WINE 


150 

The creative faculty within me dried up like a leaf in 
a flame. I grew restless, irritable, filled with a seething 
host of impalpable desires. Every time I sat down to 
write an intense longing would come over me to put on 
my hat and coat and go out into the gay streets, to wan¬ 
der along the boulevards, to join the careless, laughing 
throngs that swarmed in the brightly lit cafes, to live 
romance—not to write it. 

The urge of youth was like strong wine in my veins. 
I would stare at the blank paper before me and a fierce 
intolerance would sweep over me. 

“To-morrow,” I would tell myself impatiently. “To¬ 
morrow I will work! To-night I must go out!” 

How wonderful is Paris on a night in early autumn! 
Almost as wonderful as on a night in early spring! The 
very pavements have a sort of magic. They send minute 
electric thrills from the soles of one’s feet to each quiv¬ 
ering cell of one’s crazy brain. One wants to leap and 
dance and laugh aloud, to fling one’s arms passionately 
towards the stars. One wants to do all sorts of wild 
forbidden things, to plunge to the throat in the maddest 
of mad adventures, to embrace all Life with eager arms, 
to drain the cup of joy with thirsty lips! 

In such moments we are like frenzied forest creatures 
panting for a mate, like newly opened flowers scattering 
our perfume recklessly upon the empty air. Our very 
souls are hungry, but we know not what it is that would 
satisfy them. Our pulses throb until their beating pains 
us—but we know not why. 

I had a feeling of being swept along on the crest of a 
great wave, of seeking for something, but not knowing 


SPILLED WINE 


1 5 i 

what it was that I sought. Then, with the abrupt inev¬ 
itability of Fate came Gustave de Courcy. 

It was Alma herself who introduced us. I had gone 
to Durien’s one morning in the lunch hour, and as I 
opened the door of the big atelier he was standing by 
one of the windows gesticulating with a long paintbrush, 
and laughing hilariously. It was a very pleasant laugh, 
youthful and ringing, and as he threw back his head in 
the sunlight, I saw the muscles of his splendid throat 
ripple and quiver under the flow of spontaneous merri¬ 
ment. 

The next moment he had half turned about, glanced 
interrogatively across at me and subsided into silence. 
His dark fervent-looking eyes seemed suddenly to con¬ 
centrate, to fill with a frank interest, and deliberately 
to challenge my own. He put down his brush, thrust 
both hands into the capacious pockets of his overall, 
closed his red lips with a sort of slow precision over his 
gleaming teeth, and continued to regard me with an 
embarrassing directness. 

A moment later Alma, all unconscious of the part she 
thus played in the machinations of Fate, had come for¬ 
ward and introduced us. 

“This is our new pupil, Monsieur de Courcy, and this 
is my friend, Miss Fielding,” she said, and then, slipping 
hurriedly out of her overall, she went away to put on her 
street clothes and left us talking together. 

I regarded my new acquaintance with a curiosity which 
it did not occur to me to hide. He was obviously quite 
young, possibly twenty-three or four, and very handsome 
after the sensuous Latin type. He had dark brown eyes 
that in the sunlight seemed tinged with red, and in the 


152 


SPILLED WINE 


shadow appeared almost jet black, a clear olive skin, a 
well-shaped head covered with black hair that curled 
slightly over smooth temples, and a general air of slim¬ 
ness and grace that instinctively suggested “feline” to 
my mind. 

He began to talk to me at once with an ease of tone 
and manner that I found oddly intriguing. 

“Miss Fielding?” he repeated with the effect of an 
emphasized question. “Then you, too, are English?” 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“But you don’t look it. You are not the type. You 
are not a bit what one thinks of when one thinks of an 
English girl.” 

“No?” I queried. “In what way am I different?” 

“In all ways,” he replied, and opened both hands with 
a little expressive gesture. “You look too altogether 
alive for one thing. Most English girls are like pieces 
of wood, nice, smooth, prettily grained wood, but wood 
all the same. They have eyes like windows with the 
blinds drawn down. You are not like that, made¬ 
moiselle.” 

“Really,” I replied, and felt the corners of my mouth 
crease up into an unintentional smile. “But how do you 
know?” 

He nodded his head, his red lips answering my own 
in a way that I found disconcerting. 

“I do know. You have a face that speaks. In the 
first glance it tells many secrets—to one who knows how 
to read them, who makes—how do you call it?—a ‘hobby’ 
of reading faces.” 

I laughed outright, a little quick laugh of bewildered 
self-consciousness. 


SPILLED WINE 


i53 


“Do you?” I asked. 

“Yes. I find it the most fascinating study in the 
world, especially when the faces are women’s faces.” 

“But, of course, that is part of your art. It is a paint¬ 
er’s business to understand such things.” 

“It is also, I assure you, my very great pleasure. 
There is nothing I like so much as to watch the play of 
emotions upon a human face—a pretty face for choice. 
Yours, for instance, arrested me instantly, the moment 
you opened the door. There was a black patch of shadow 
behind you. Your eyes swept round the room—inquir¬ 
ingly. You had the effect of stepping out of a picture, 
an air of expectancy. One day I would like very much 
to paint you—if mademoiselle would permit?” 

“Oh, but surely, wouldn’t that be a great waste of 
time?” I protested. “I mean, when there are so many 
other people so much better worth painting?” 

“But are there? I don’t agree with you. Vous avez 
une physiognomie tout a jait exceptionnelle” 

“But it isn’t beautiful. Even a Frenchman couldn’t 
say that.” And I flashed a sudden challenge into his 
reddish-brown eyes. 

He paused, the usual facile compliment upon his lips; 
then, with an effort of sincerity that surprised me, he 
said: 

“No, that is true. You are not beautiful in the or¬ 
dinary sense, but you will admit that you are unusual. 
There is something about you— quelque chose — ah> 
comme c y est difficile d’expliquer! You remind me of 
Lisa Gioconda.” 

“Then I am not flattered,” I declared. “I consider 
Mona Lisa ugly.” 


154 


SPILLED WINE 


“But fascinating! You cannot deny that she is fas¬ 
cinating? And it was not her features I meant, only 
something about her expression —une charme extraor¬ 
dinaire! You must have an interesting personality. As 
I have told you, I am always studying faces, and the 
first impressions I gather from them do not often mislead 
me.” 

Again I laughed. I had an absurd feeling that some 
intangible influence was steadily encircling me, closing 
upon me like the folds of an invisible net. With an 
effort to dispel the effect of deliberately contrived in¬ 
timacy which this bewildering stranger was somehow 
creating, I turned abruptly, almost rudely, away from 
him, and, walking over to one of the windows of the now 
deserted studio stood looking blankly down into the 
street below. 

Without the slightest hesitation he followed me. Al¬ 
though he did not actually touch me, I became aware of 
his physical nearness with a peculiar poignancy. 

In a voice that sounded forced, even to myself, I made 
some trivial remark about the view. For a moment he 
did not answer. I had a swift impression that he was 
smiling behind my back; then: 

“Mademoiselle,” he said very softly, “I am not at all 
interested in the street. It is always there. I can look 
at it any time I desire. On the other hand, I cannot 
always look at you. Won’t you please turn round?” 

And then a most curious thing happened. I said to 
myself quite violently, “I will not turn round,” and the 
next moment I had turned, was looking full into this 
strange man’s compelling eyes. 

He was standing quite close to me, one hand resting 


SPILLED WINE 


155 


upon the frame of the window, and as he looked at me, 
I received a sudden, vivid impression of strength, strength 
veiled in subtlety, the sort of strength one instinctively 
associates with the rippling muscles of a tiger. 

His eyes seemed to brood over me. His whole expres¬ 
sion lit up and then settled into a mask-like inscrutabil¬ 
ity. His lips moved once, twice. He was on the point of 
speaking. . . . And then Alma came back again into the 
room and the spell was broken. 

After that first encounter in Durien’s studio I met 
Gustave de Courcy continually. Frequently our meet¬ 
ings had the effect of pure accident. To this day I am 
not sure how big a part Fate played in the matter, and 
how much was due to the limitless ruse de guerre of 
Gustave himself. 

At the time I did not even think about it. I was like 
a twig caught in a flood, swept along by a current that 
brooked no resistance. I was the fleeing quarry and 
Gustave the hunter. From the outset I had little chance 
of escape. He seemed to become part of the very at¬ 
mosphere I breathed, to share every amusement in which 
I found myself included. There were early autumn ex¬ 
cursions to St. Cloud and Fontainebleau and Versailles, 
with picnicing en plein air, evenings at the theatre or 
music hall, roystering parties in some studio or other, 
dancing at the Bal Tabarin, the Bal Bouillier, the Moulin 
Rouge, or the Moulin de la Galette, and always, per¬ 
meating everything, the gay laugh, the soft voice, the 
brooding eyes of Gustave de Courcy. 

He seemed to have limitless time and plenty of money 
at his disposal. As a matter of fact I soon discovered 


SPILLED WINE 


156 

that he was the second son of an aristocratic family of 
Savoie, and that he was studying art merely pour passer 
le temps, and because he happened to prefer life in the 
gay capital to life in the ancient Chateau de Frangois, 
near Besangon, under the strict eye of Madame sa mere. 

It is difficult even now to find an adequate explana¬ 
tion of his attraction for me. Up to that time I had 
always disliked dark men. I should have laughed if 
anyone had suggested that I could have ever fallen in 
love with one. And yet, within a few weeks, in fact 
from the first moment of our meeting, he undoubtedly 
exercised a very strange power over me. He interested, 
alarmed, fascinated and repulsed me in turn. He pro¬ 
voked in me the most amazing, the most outrageous 
emotions, emotions that I do not attempt either to ex¬ 
plain or defend, because I cannot. 

From the beginning I knew perfectly well that it was 
not true love. There was something fierce and bewilder¬ 
ing and altogether primitive about it. It held nothing 
of soul and everything that was frankly of the senses. 
And it carried with it an overwhelming conviction of 
helplessness and self-abasement. It was as though I were 
a violin and Gustave my master, and that when he passed 
his bow across my quivering strings I was compelled to 
give forth whatever music he desired. 

Often when I was alone a reaction akin to hatred would 
grow up in me, only to melt away like wax in the first 
glance of his caressing eyes. He had wonderful eyes. 
They hypnotized me as the eyes of a snake can hypnotize 
its prey. They seemed to glide over my whole body with 
a slow burning covetousness, to wrap me in a sheet of 
flame. He had a voice of music, one of the most exquis- 


SPILLED WINE 


157 

itely modulated voices I have ever listened to. And his 
hands when they touched me were like powerful magnets 
drawing away my strength of will, robbing me of all 
power of resistance. 

He played me skilfully as an angler plays a fish, and I 
countered desperately, fighting him inch by inch. I 
wanted to run away and I wanted terribly to stay. At 
one moment I felt that I detested him, the next that I 
would have knelt before him in the dust for the pleasure 
of having him touch me. He allured me, intoxicated me, 
drove me mad with sheer, unadulterated physical desire. 

If you are a woman and have never experienced such 
an emotion as the one I am attempting to describe, you 
will certainly not understand. You will simply be moved 
to a wondering disgust. And yet I believe that I am 
not peculiar in my experience, that there are other wom¬ 
en, that there must be other women, who have felt ex¬ 
actly what I felt. 

It is a recognized fact that men, even “nice” men, 
know passion divorced from love. Society as a whole 
does not feel itself outraged or alarmed over the matter, 
nor does it consider that the man’s character has neces¬ 
sarily suffered in consequence. Why, then, should a 
woman be different? Why should it be thought im¬ 
proper for her to possess emotions which are freely per¬ 
mitted to the opposite sex? Why is it more culpable for 
her to respond to the excitement of natural instincts 
than for a man to do the same thing? I confess I can¬ 
not see an honest reason. 

I knew I did not love Gustave, but he answered a 
need of my youth, a deep clamorous primal need. When 
he held me, dancing, in his arms, it was as though some 


SPILLED WINE 


158 

virtue passed out of my body to his. When he sat in 
the flickering shade of autumn-tinted trees, and smiled at 
me, it was as though some glittering thing began to spin 
madly in my brain! When he talked in his soft purring 
voice my desires ran to him like eager slaves. I felt that 
nothing else mattered in all the world but the assuage¬ 
ment of my need. 

“My little one,” he would say, and his tones would 
caress me like a stroking hand. “Why do you look at 
me like that—as though something within you were 
Standing on tiptoe—panting? You have a way of letting 
your lips fall suddenly, just a little open and the wings 
of your nostrils quiver like a horse when it is frightened. 
And every moment you grow more alive, more unlike 
my idea of an English girl. One day I must paint you, 
juste comme gd. You will be ravissante! You will 
puzzle people more than Lisa Gioconda. And I shall 
call my picture ‘La Vierge Expectante.’ The Waiting 
Virgin! Waiting for the consummation of love, the 
warmth of passion that will change her from a lily to a 
rose! Don’t you think that would be a very good title?” 

And I would try my best to answer him calmly, to 
cover my confusion and embarrassment, my deadly fear 
of self-betrayal. And all the while I would be wonder¬ 
ing how much he guessed and what he intended to do 
about it. 

One evening we were at the Bal Bouillier. We had been 
sitting for some time in an alcove on the low balcony, 
sipping strop d’orange and watching a roystering crowd 
of festive Bohemians dancing the cancan. Suddenly the 
band struck up Marietta , and Gustave, stood up beside 


SPILLED WINE 


i59 

me, said “Allons, ma petite” and led me down into the 
centre of the floor. 

From the moment he took me into his arms, and began 
to steer a skilful way among the swaying couples, some¬ 
thing warned me that a change had come over him, that 
the method of his treatment of me was going to take a 
new turn. 

Dreamily my feet moved to the music, my heart beat¬ 
ing the while with a suffocating violence, the little glit¬ 
tering thing spinning madly in my brain, my whole body 
seeming to melt in his embrace like a passionate fluid. I 
tried to think of something sane and calm and matter-of- 
fact, to find a foothold in the treacherous quicksands 
that seemed to be rapidly engulfing me, but all to no pur¬ 
pose. No effort of will could blot out the disturbing 
vision of Gustave’s strong white throat and faintly smiling 
lips, make me senseless to the clasp of his eager arms. 

“Comme tu es exquise, ma petite!” he whispered, bend¬ 
ing his head so that the words spilled themselves softly 
into my ear. “You dance better than any woman I have 
ever known. You are like a flower in the arms! No, 
like a warm soft cat, a little, slim, furry animal with no 
bones. You give no resistance. One is not conscious 
that your feet touch the ground. You are delightful to 
embrace!” 

I did not answer. I was quite incapable of doing so 
had I wanted to. And presently he went on, his lips 
so close that his breath fanned my cheek like a hot, 
orange-scented breeze. 

“You are the most wonderful girl in Paris to-night. 
And it is I who have made you so—I, Gustave de Courcy. 
I found you, a little innocent green fruit, and I have 


i6o 


SPILLED WINE 


ripened you in the warm sun of my passion. I have had 
patience! Ah! you cannot imagine what my patience 
has cost me, how my love for you has consumed me! 
But I am a connoisseur. I do not pick the green fruit. 
But now, ma petite, you are all rosy and golden, you glow 
with ripeness. You cannot deny it. I see it in your 
eyes, in the way your soul seems to pant through your 
lips, in the agitation of your little round breasts. Ma 
mignon, my little Velvet-eyes’—are you not ready to 
be plucked?” 

I cannot hope to describe the effect which this remark¬ 
able speech had upon me, an effect heightened by the 
pressure of his arms, the rapturous seduction of the 
music, the throbbing rhythm of the dance. The lights 
swam dizzily about us. Like a little ship in a seething, 
colourous sea we swayed and glided among the crowd of 
dancers. In all that gay throng we were alone, heart 
beating upon heart, breath mingling with breath, every 
sentient nerve singing a clamorous duet. 

I closed my eyes and lost all consciousness of time or 
movement. How long Gustave’s soft voice wooed vo¬ 
luptuously in my ears I have not the least idea. I drifted 
in a sort of crazy trance until the band stopped. 

Then he led me back to the alcove, ordered a liqueur 
that I had never tasted before, a golden liquid with a 
stinging bitter-sweet taste that glowed like a topaz in 
its little glass, and watched me silently while I sipped it. 

“That’s better,” he exclaimed presently, “you were 
looking pale.” 

I made a great effort to appear self-controlled and said: 

“It’s the heat. There are so many people here to¬ 
night.” 


SPILLED WINE 161 

He stretched out a hand and caught one of mine sud¬ 
denly in his. His eyes looked meaningly into mine. 

“Isn’t it, perhaps, something else beside ?” he said. 
“Something that has nothing to do with the heat?” 

I made a fresh effort and managed to drag my hand 
away. 

“I—I don’t understand,” I faltered. 

“Oh, yes you do. You understand perfectly.” 

He broke off, leant towards me over the table and, 
dropping his voice to a low note that was at once suppli¬ 
cating and masterful, he went on: 

“Don’t you think we’ve played the game long enough? 
Isn’t it time you showed the white flag? I have infinite 
patience—but I can’t wait for ever.” 

For a moment the little glittering thing stopped spin¬ 
ning in my brain. His eyes seemed to paralyse me. I 
felt my very soul being sucked up towards their shim¬ 
mering blackness. 

“Please-” I began helplessly. “Please-” 

My voice trailed off into a whisper. I felt my limbs 
tremble violently. I felt the last atom of my self-control 
slipping away irretrievably from my grasp. 

He leant still closer, until his face was very near to 
mine, until everything else had been blotted from my 
vision. 

“Petite amourette! I love you! I adore you!” he 
cried. “You are like a syren, a witch, enflaming my 
every thought. I feel for you more than I have felt 
for any other woman. You make me mad with love. 
Isn’t it time you gave me my reward?” 

“Your reward? I—I don’t know what you mean.” 

He smiled, a slow incredulous smile, and his fingers 





SPILLED WINE 


162 

dosed again over my right hand as it toyed nervously 
with the stem of my empty glass. 

“You told me a different story just now when we were 
dancing,” he said. “You did not need to speak with 
the lips. Your eyes told me, the little clutch of your 
fingers, your whole quivering body. Ah, what wonder¬ 
ful secrets it whispered! How happy it made me! I 
defy you to look into my eyes and say that you are not 
mine, that you do not want me, as wildly, as madly as 
I want you?” 

With one last despairing effort I gripped the edge of 
the table with my left hand, and struggled weakly to 
my feet. 

“You bewilder me! I must think! I can’t answer 
you to-night,” I said, “please take me home.” 

As we drove back to the rue Racine, I let Gustave kiss 
me for the first time. And as his lips, those passionate 
red lips that had so often tempted me, closed hungrily 
on mine, a sort of madness swirled over me. For a while 
so great was the stress of my emotion that I almost 
fainted. 

I knew then that however long I might succeed in 
postponing the moment of final surrender my answer 
had already been given. 


CHAPTER XII 


T HERE followed an exhausting struggle between my 
physical desires on the one hand—allied to my 
curiosity, my thirst for experience—and, on the other, 
something which I can only describe as an innate instinct 
of virginity, something, the very existence of which I 
had not previously been aware, but which now amazed 
me with the strength of its tenacity and endurance. 

Between these two contending forces I suffered agonies 
of torment. I grew thin and restless, as though body and 
spirit were being steadily consumed in the fever of my 
infatuation. I could not sleep at night, and when I did 
my dreams were filled with visions of Gustave. The days 
I spent in a continuous effort to avoid him. Sometimes 
I would succeed for a while, only to find myself flung 
violently back into the tempestuous ardour of his pres¬ 
ence. 

“Why do you run away from me like this?” he would 
plead in the soft, disturbing voice of his. “We could be 
so happy together, so gloriously happy! I am rich. I 
could give you a good time. I could take you anywhere. 
We could see the whole world together. You have often 
told me how you want to travel. And I love you. Ah, 
my little one, you have no conception how I love you! 
What wonderful things I could teach you! What ex¬ 
quisite delights I could give you! Your cruelty but adds 
to my passion. Sooner or later, you must be mine. Why 
hesitate?” 


163 


SPILLED WINE 


164 

And then the full flood of an agonizing temptation 
would sweep over me like a tidal wave, submerging for 
the moment all emotions save that of my physical desire 
for this man who so powerfully attracted me. 

Sometimes, for an hour or so, I would almost give up 
the struggle; I would let him kiss and caress me; I would 
lie entranced in his arms. And then, suddenly, when his 
wooing grew too bold, there would come a revulsion of 
feeling that would swing me momentarily to the other 
extreme. 

I was in the position of a besieged fortress whose worst 
foe lay crouched within its own walls. Like some ever- 
watchful beast, my lower nature waited an opportunity 
to betray me, to fling open the gates to the enemy. 

We argued the matter endlessly, until I became worn 
out and weary with the effort of resistance. Sleeping or 
waking, there seemed no escape. I felt like some frantic, 
hunted creature, driven by baying hounds to the very 
verge of the precipice. 

At times Gyp’s talk that day at St. Cloud would come 
back into my mind like a mocking echo. “If only she 
were here now!” I would say to myself. And then 
again, “But no! No one could help me. It is a matter 
for myself alone.” 

One afternoon in early November I walked with Gus¬ 
tave in the Bois. His arm linked mine, his fingers curled 
about my wrist. We were walking slowly along the edge 
of the lake, and talking earnestly. 

“What is it that makes you hold back?” he queried 
persistently. “What is it that you fear? Haven’t I 


SPILLED WINE 


165 

proved that I love you? That I would be good to you? 
Can you doubt me?” 

“Yes. No. . . . It’s nothing to do with that,” I par-? 
ried wearily. “It’s so difficult to explain. In France 
one looks differently at these things. In England when 
a man loves a girl—he asks her to marry him.” 

My companion uttered a little cry of dismay. A 
startled look came into his eyes. 

“But what madness are you talking?” he exclaimed. 
“What have love and marriage to do with one another? 
Nothing, I assure you, absolutely nothing. The one kills 
the other —toute suite. They are not compatible. You 
find a bird singing on a tree. Will he sing as sweetly if 
you at once catch him and put him in a cage? Of course 
not. Neither will love last if you stifle him with marriage 
vows. C.a v.a sans dire! In France, when a man loves 
a woman and wishes to remain in love with her—he 
marries some one else. And why? Because he is wise. 
He understands human nature. He is an artist in love— 
une epicure! When he finds a thoroughbred horse, a 
thing of beauty and spirit, does he straightway put it to 
drag the heavy cart of domesticity through the mud of 
everyday existence? Jamais de la vie!” 

He halted abruptly by the edge of a miniature bay, 
over which a faint breeze was rippling the leaden-col¬ 
oured water, and waved a dramatic arm. 

“Think of it from a sensible point of view,” he went 
on persuasively. “I love you now. I love you madly, 
more than I have ever loved any other woman. And 
you love me. I am sure of it. Your eyes have told me 
so a thousand times. But how can either of us say how 
long our love will last? Six months? A year? Two 


i66 


SPILLED WINE 


years? And what then? If we were married, tied to¬ 
gether for the rest of our lives, we should grow to hate 
each other. Being free, we shall merely part good friends, 
each grateful to the other for a happy time, a pleasant 
memory.” 

He paused, scrutinizing my face closely, and continued: 

“You must know that I’m right, that no passion such 
as ours could possibly last for ever! You sentimental 
English think so, I know, but it is all a folly and a de¬ 
lusion. We must take the joy of the gods when and 
how it is offered—or go starved to the ends of our lives. 
There is no alternative.” 

While he talked I stood looking out across the lake, 
watching with semi-conscious eyes the furtive movements 
of a moorhen among the overhanging foliage of the op¬ 
posite bank. And suddenly a new thought presented 
itself to my mind. Supposing Gustave had offered me 
marriage, should I have accepted? And without a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation came the answer. No, under no pos¬ 
sible circumstances would I have consented to such an 
irrevocable union. I did not deceive myself about the 
quality of my feeling for him. It had been a profanation 
to link the word “marriage” with an emotion so debased 
and elemental. If I wanted this thing, this shameless 
gratification of the senses, I must take it like an honest 
libertine. There was no other way. 

“I think,” I announced suddenly, with an air of com¬ 
ing to a definite resolve, “if you would give me a little 
longer to make sure—say a week from now—I would be 
able to give you an answer.” 

“You mean-?” 

“Don’t let me see or hear from you for one whole 



SPILLED WINE 167 

week. Then I will come to you and tell you my decision 
—and stick to it.” 

His eyes flashed hotly and then sobered. He drew in 
a deep breath and let it out again explosively. 

“A week!” he said. “A whole week! But how shall 
I live through such an age? How shall I exist without 
even a sight of you? What agony of torment, what hope 
and fear and burning impatience shall I suffer?” 

“But afterwards,” I coaxed, “if the answer is yes-” 

“There will be no more waiting?” 

“None.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.” 

There followed a long silence. Gustave poked with 
the end of his walking-stick in the black slime at the edge 
of the lake. I was conscious of a choking sensation, as 
though I had deliberately burned my boats behind me 
and was standing aghast at the rashness of my action. 
Then: 

“All right,” he said at length. “You shall have your 
week, but not a moment longer. Not one little moment 
longer! I shall come to you-” 

“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “I will come to you. We’ll 
meet at the Bal Bouillier. I will come to that little table 
in the alcove—a week to-night.” 

Again there was silence. Then, abruptly, he turned 
and stood facing me, holding both my hands pressed 
tightly against the breast of his overcoat. 

“This is not a trick?” he exclaimed, and his voice 
shook with passionate insistence. “You will not deceive 
me? You will not run away?” 

“No, no, oh no.” 




i68 


SPILLED WINE 


“You swear not to fail me?” 

“I swear, Gustave.” 

He released my hands, drew in another deep breath, 
and then, without a word, slipped an arm through mine 
and led me away from the lake. 

I don’t know what instinct had prompted me to ask 
for that week’s respite. I don’t know what I had expected 
to get out of it, how it was going to help me to settle the 
problem of my future relations with Gustave. 

As a matter of fact, it did not help me in the least. If 
my torment of mind had been severe before, it became 
unendurable now. I felt like a rat in a trap. I hadn’t 
even the satisfaction of believing myself to be a free 
agent. I knew myself now for what I was—the helpless 
sport of circumstances, the slave of an overwhelming 
passion. Even if I had not pledged my word in the 
matter, I was quite incapable of running away. 

“I don’t love him! I think I almost hate him!” I 
cried in the bitterness of my spirit. “Then what is this 
feeling that controls me, that makes me long for the 
sound of his voice, the touch of his hand—that makes me 
want to grovel and plead for his kisses? . . . Ann 
Fielding, where is your pride, your boasted independence, 
your common sense? . . . Ann Fielding, you’re a lost 
thing! You’re going to become deliberately the mis¬ 
tress of a man you despise, a comedy-lover, who isn’t 
worth a thought. You’re going to risk everything for a 
pleasure that may not last a month—a week! You aren’t 
deceived! You know quite well what you’re doing— 
and you won’t save yourself! You amaze me!” 

Again a small insidious voice would whisper: 


SPILLED WINE 


169 

“But what about your desire for knowledge? Isn’t 
this the opportunity you have been seeking? After all, 
if you are careful, can such an adventure do you any real 
harm? It is all to the good that you do not love this 
man. If you loved him, your brain and heart, your very 
soul would be involved, in which case you would indeed 
become a slave. As it is, it is merely your baser self that 
you are risking, and in exchange you will gain—knowl¬ 
edge. A very fair exchange, surely?” 

As the days crept by, I swung alternately between a 
mood of reckless defiance and one of helpless self-disgust. 
I lost my appetite, my cheeks grew pale and sunken. 
Shadows crept beneath my eyes like the outspread wings 
of a moth. I scarcely slept at all, and as I lay tossing 
restlessly from side to side the darkness was haunted 
with tantalizing visions of Gustave. I would see the 
little blue vein beating in his white throat, I would see 
the brooding ardour of his half-veiled eyes, the faint 
seductive smile of his scarlet lips, and a sensation like a 
hot shiver would pass over me from head to foot. 

By the end of the week my frame of mind was pre¬ 
cisely what it had been at the beginning. I had settled 
nothing. But then, there was nothing to settle, there 
never had been. A prisoner in chains does not make up 
his mind whether or not he will follow his gaoler. He has 
no choice in the matter. 

If possible my infatuation had merely intensified by 
this self-inflicted trial. My lips longed for the passionate 
satisfaction of Gustave’s kisses as a parched man longs 
for water. 

I dressed myself for our meeting with infinite pains. 


SPILLED WINE 


170 

I wore a black velvet costume—it was the year when 
black was so fashionable—and a soft black toque with a 
pink rose in it. And, at the last moment, because I was 
so desperately pale, I rouged my cheeks, and put lip¬ 
salve on my mouth. 

The effect was startling. As I looked at myself in the 
glass I could hardly repress a gasp of admiration. In 
spite of my thinness I looked positively beautiful in the 
soft lamplight that burned on my dressing-table. The 
dark stains under my eyes only served to give them an 
uncanny brilliance, to make them look larger and more 
oddly attractive than usual. Under my little black cap, 
around where my hair curled elfishly, my face had a vivid, 
provocative look. 

A feeling of exaltation, of reckless intoxication, beat in 
my breast like fluttering wings as I turned down the 
lamp, put the key into my bag, and let myself out of the 
appartement. . . . 

Gustave was sitting exactly as I had pictured him, his 
shoulders bent slightly forward, one arm resting upon the 
little oblong table, a cigarette between his fingers, his 
dark eyes blazing a trail of eager expectancy across the 
crowded dancing hall. 

And like a sleep-walker I went to him over the strip of 
red carpet, between the little groups of tables. . . . 

As I sat down opposite him, he stretched out his 
hand and caught my wrist. He held me so tightly that 
I almost winced with the pain of it. 

“C’est bien!” he said. “You have come! But what 
an age it has been—this waiting! What agonies I have 
suffered! What exquisite torture! But you have come 
—that is all that matters.” 


SPILLED WINE 


171 

He dropped his half-finished cigarette into the dregs 
of an empty wine-glass, and stretching out his other hand 
across the table, he continued: 

“Mais, comme tu es belle ce soir! Ravissante! Ex - 
quise! Never before have you seemed so adorable. Never 
before have I wanted you so madly. Perhaps, after all, 
the waiting has been worth while!” 

He loosened his hold on my wrist, removed my gloves 
first one, then the other, and began to stroke the backs of 
my hands gently from knuckles to finger tips. 

“Mon Dieu ” he whispered, “comme je t’adore. I wor¬ 
ship your very shoes—your dear little feet. How I long 
to kiss each little pink toe, to kiss you all over until you 
are crazed with love! You are mine now. I know it. 
I have known it all along. You are mine and I am go¬ 
ing to smother you with happiness. I will teach you 
all there is to know of love—all its tenderness and mad¬ 
ness and joy! I burn for you. I have not slept at night 
for thinking of you. I think of your beautiful hands and 
feet—and your lips—and the rest of you that must be 
equally lovely. . . . Oh, my little one, look into my 
eyes and see how I love you!” 

I was trembling all over, violently, helplessly. Every 
nerve in my body seemed to swoon under the touch of 
his masterful hands. 

“I—I’ve come—because I couldn’t help myself,” I 
stammered. “I tried to stay away—but I couldn’t. It 
may be all wrong—mad, foolish. In my heart I know it 
is. But I don’t care. I feel as if nothing matters—that 
I’ve just got to go on.” 

I felt my breath come panting through my lips. I 
took one last swift glance about me, at the blue-coated 


SPILLED WINE 


172 

band, at the laughing couples swaying in the dance—I 
caught the smiling eyes of a cocotte directed inquisitively 
towards me over the sparkling brim of her uplifted wine¬ 
glass—then irresistibly my glance swung back to the face 
of the man who sat opposite me. 

“Gustave, listen to me,” I went on hurriedly. “I’m 
yours—for as long as you can keep me—as long as I 
can’t help myself! You understand? I want to be quite 
honest. I don’t really—want—to do—what I’m doing— 
but I can’t help myself. . . . You’ve done something to 
me. I’ve got no strength left to resist you. But as soon 
as I can get free again-” 

He gave a little triumphant laugh, his white teeth glit¬ 
tering in their odd seductive way between his red lips. 
He leaned still further over the table. He stopped strok¬ 
ing my hands and held them together, hot palm touching 
hot palm. 

“I accept your implied challenge,” he cried gaily, “but 
we won’t look so far ahead. We won’t touch so much 
as a single feather of our golden singing bird. We will 
live for the joy of the moment. For the joy of to-night 1 
Come!” 

As I followed him blindly across the red carpet towards 
the entrance I took a handkerchief from my bag and 
rubbed the now totally superfluous rouge from my hot 
cheeks. 

Dawn, a pale, lemon-coloured dawn, was just breaking 
as I passed through the tall gates of No. 37 rue Racine, 
traversed the echoing stone courtyard, and made my way 
slowly up to the third floor. 

It was pitch dark inside the house and very silent. 
I climbed in a dazed way, feeling against the walls as I 



SPILLED WINE 


i73 

went. When presently I found myself in my bedroom, 
I moved with the stealthy movements of a cat. 

I did not light the lamp. I told myself that it was 
because I did not want to disturb Alma, but in my heart 
I knew that it was because I was afraid to meet the dumb 
questioning of her watchful eyes. Some instinct warned 
me that she was awake and listening, that she had never 
been to sleep. 

I was heavy and stupid with fatigue, empty of every 
emotion save that of intense longing for sleep. I thought 
of absolutely nothing as I dragged off my clothes and got 
into bed. Every movement was mechanical. It was as 
though my body were controlled by mere brute impulse, 
as though the soul, the guiding spirit that was Me, had 
suddenly gone out of it, leaving it to fumble helplessly 
like a blind thing in the dark. Every nerve, every sen¬ 
tient fibre of my mental and physical being was utterly 
exhausted. 

I had no sooner got into bed than I fell into a deep 
sleep, the heaviest and soundest I had experienced for 
weeks. 


CHAPTER XIII 


HE noonday sun was streaming in across my bed 



jL when I awoke. For some moments after opening 
my eyes I lay and watched it, floating supinely in the 
misty hinterland that bridges deep sleep and fully revived 
consciousness. 

I was aware of a baffling sensation of having broken 
off in the middle of something, as when one wakes all 
glowing from the vivid impressions of a dream. 

“Something has happened/’ I told myself curiously, 

“something that—that-! What was it? . . . Last 

night! It was last night. . . . Where did I go last 
night?” 

Drowsily I stared at the patch of sunlight, groping 
after the ravelled threads of memory. . . . 

Then suddenly something seemed to snatch at my 
heart, to hold it in a vice so that it stopped beating. 

“Gustave!” I cried out softly beneath my breath. 
“Gustave!” 

With a rush like the torrential leap forward of a mo¬ 
mentarily dammed stream, recollection flowed back over 
me. I remembered the events of the previous night, 
every tiniest detail of them, with a poignancy that brought 
a gasp to my lips, a wave of burning flame to my cheeks. 

“I went to Gustave’s appartement!” I told myself 
slowly, and the words formed themselves into a stereo¬ 
typed sentence that kept repeating itself over and over 
again in my brain. “I went to Gustave’s appartement! 



SPILLED WINE 


i75 

. . . Then it’s all over. It’s no use fighting any more. 
. . . I’m no longer ‘virtuous’ according to conventional 
standards. I’m a—a ‘fallen woman.’ . . . Well, that’s 
clear and settled anyway! . . . The question is—what 
am I going to do about it? . . . Am I sorry? Am I? 
... I suppose it’s too early to be sure, but I don’t think 
I am. I don’t think so. . . . It’s done now, anyway. 
There’s no going back. I’ve eaten the Forbidden Fruit 
—deliberately—wilfully. . . . After all, what is virtue? 
This mere physical virtue they talk so much about, make 
such a fetish of? I can’t see that it’s so important! I 
can’t see that it’s any special use. In fact, it’s a dis¬ 
tinct disability—a bar to knowledge. It creates an ab¬ 
surd atmosphere of mystery and ‘taboo.’ It clogs the 
imagination with disturbing speculation. It excites an 
unhealthy curiosity—and it’s apt to trip one up at all 
sorts of inconvenient moments. ... So long as one is 
ignorant, one is never safe. How can one ‘know oneself’ 
if one is to go through life wrapped up in a cloak of sim¬ 
pering prudery, blind to the most vital facts of exist¬ 
ence?” 

After this fashion I endeavoured to argue the matter 
out to my own satisfaction, to justify my behaviour of 
the previous night. 

“There’s nothing to get alarmed about,” I told myself 
earnestly. “After all, it’s only what you knew perfectly 
well was bound to happen—sooner or later. You’ve 
thought this matter out so often, you know you have. 
Every one does—but they won’t admit it. There’s noth¬ 
ing outrageous, or remarkable in what you’ve done. It’s 
really very commonplace. It happens to every woman— 
every woman who is a woman. Some of them are mar- 


SPILLED WINE 


176 

ried, of course—in which case they’re bound for ever 
afterwards, their whole lives pledged for the gratification 
of a physical impulse that may not outlast the honey¬ 
moon. Now you—Ann Fielding—you’re precisely where 
you started from—with the addition of an experience 
that obviously couldn’t have been postponed very much 
longer.” 

I lay still and thought for a while. 

“Am I free? Really free? Can I ever be free again? 
Or am I really free for the first time—free from the 
troubling urgencies of my own curiosities? . . . Having 
eaten of the Tree of Knowledge am I not infinitely more 
my own mistress than ever before?” 

Again I slipped into a mood of apostrophication and 
went on: 

“You see, now you know, you can measure yourself 
up as it were. You know what you’re capable of. Before 
so many things were a matter of guesswork. . . . Above 
all, you must avoid an exaggerated point of view. You 
mustn’t fall into the common error of sentimental hys¬ 
teria. You’re not a wanton. You’re merely a girl who 
has elected to complete her sexual education without at 
the same time acquiring the unnecessary and totally un¬ 
desirable appendage—a husband, to obey a natural law 
in a simple instead of a complicated manner. Your life 
is still your own. You’ve lost nothing, nothing of any 
real importance, and you’ve gained—Knowledge. Your 
writing won’t suffer. It will benefit. . . . Now if, by 
any mischance, you had married Gustave, if you had 
become his wife and lawful possession instead of merely 
his mistress, that would have been an inexcusable 
blunder.’* 


SPILLED WINE 


177 

For quite a long time I lay there and thought about 
the matter in this detached academic sort of way, as 
though the whole thing had happened to some one else 
and not to me. Then, gradually, a more personal feel¬ 
ing began to assert itself. I began to recall the look in 
Gustave’s eyes ... the touch of his hands ... his 
lips . . . the peculiar warm scent of his breath . . . 

And suddenly an amazing discovery broke over me. 
Thinking of these things no longer excited me. Not even 
the deliberate remembrance of the most intimate details 
of our “purple hour” had the power to provoke in me 
the desire for a repetition. 

I thought of my lover’s masterful ways, of a certain 
cruel pitilessness I had seen for the first time in the 
curves of his too red lips, and abruptly, out of the dead 
ashes of my passion there arose a curious revolt. It was 
as though something had snapped within me, as though 
in slaking my thirst I had unaccountably killed it. I 
had drunk at the fount of knowledge and my fever was 
appeased. My infatuation for Gustave de Courcy had 
died as swiftly, as inexplicably, as it had been born. Al¬ 
ready a burning disgust was beginning to spread within 
me like a caustic acid. 

As I lay staring out at the sunlight I marvelled at the 
change that had come over me. Instead of feeling bound 
by my act I felt suddenly free, utterly, incredibly free, as 
though shackles had been struck from my limbs. I found 
myself able to think with peculiar lucidity. 

“I’m glad it’s happened,” I decided finally. “Now 
there’s no danger of it ever happening again in the future. 
As far as that side of life is concerned, I know all I ever 
want to know. . . . But it was necessary to get it over 


SPILLED WINE 


178 

and done with. It would always have been dogging me.” 

Presently Alma came into the room carrying a roll and 
butter and a big bowl of chocolate on a tray. 

“I thought I heard you wake,” she said, and put the 
tray down upon the bed beside me. Then without another 
word she turned away and began to tidy up the littered 
disarray of the dressing-table. 

I had a feeling that she was purposely refraining from 
looking at me. For a few moments I watched her in 
silence, watched the nervous fumbling of her hands, the 
way she kept her back resolutely towards me. Once I 
caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her eyes 
looked red as if she had been crying. The lines of her 
mouth were drawn into a stiff unnatural mould. Her 
whole expression was one of strained anxiety. Then I 
knew that she knew—everything, and that she was suf¬ 
fering all the anguish of mind which, according to con¬ 
ventional standards, I ought to have been suffering. 

I longed to leap out of bed, fling my arms about her 
and tell her not to be a little fool; that there was nothing 
to worry about, and that the world was a very jolly place 
and fearfully interesting if one only looked at things in a 
sensible way. Instead I sat munching my roll and sip¬ 
ping my chocolate and watching her thoughtfully as she 
pottered about the room. 

She was on the point of leaving it, when an idea flashed 
into my mind and I called her back. 

“What would you say,” I began, “to our going back to 
London?” 

“To London?” 

“Yes. I mean at once.” 

“At once?” 


SPILLED WINE 179 

She stopped dead, one hand clasping the foot-rail of 
my bed. 

“You—mean that?” she almost gasped, a flash of eager 
assent lighting up her eyes. “You mean you would really 
—go?” 

I nodded, drained my cup and set it back with a little 
clatter upon the tray. 

“Why not?” I said. “Don’t you think it’s about time 
we were making a move? We’ve been here over ten 
months. And, personally, I’ve had enough of it—for the 
time being.” 

“I—I think it would be a good plan,” she agreed rather 
hesitatingly, as though she still doubted my sincerity in 
making the proposal. “I’ve felt several times lately I’d 
like to be getting back. When did you think of going?” 

“At once. To-day if we could manage it. To-morrow 
anyway. Yes, I suppose it will have to be to-morrow. 
It’ll take a little while to pack—and make arrangements.” 

Lifting the tray on to a chair, I threw back the clothes 
and sprang out of bed. “If you’ll go down and borrow 
Madame Goumet’s time-table I’ll look up a train. I 
believe there’s one that leaves the Gare du Nord about 
8.30 in the morning.” 

Alma gave me one look of bewildered astonishment, 
and went. 

By seven o’clock that evening we had packed every¬ 
thing, corded our trunks, paid Madame a week’s money 
in lieu of notice, and bidden a hurried “adieu” to most 
of the inmates of the pension. Our arrangements for the 
next day’s journey were practically complete. 

I had offered no explanation to Alma on the subject of 


i8o 


SPILLED WINE 


my sudden decision to leave Paris, and she had asked no 
questions in return, but I could see that she was as 
feverishly anxious as myself to be gone. 

During the whole day I remained indoors. An odd 
reluctance to go out into the streets possessed me. The 
city which for nearly a year had held me in the grip of a 
fascination almost impossible to describe had suddenly 
become intolerable to me. For the time being I wanted 
to forget it and all it stood for. I wanted to forget 
Gustave and the strange meteoric passion he had aroused 
in me. I thought of the calm simplicity of England, the 
restfulness of its inimitable beauty, with that urgent 
longing which must come to a migratory bird when it 
returns to the land of its nesting. I wanted to fill my 
lungs with deep breaths of its raw bleak air, to purge 
myself body and soul of the crazy fever of enflamed 
senses. 

Once during the evening, as I sat upon the floor hur¬ 
riedly sorting over an agglomeration of papers, Alma 
brought me a “petite bleu” addressed in Gustave’s hand¬ 
writing. I left it lying where she placed it until she went 
out of the room. Then, deliberately, and with barely a 
glance at the flimsy blue envelope, I picked it up with 
the tongs and dropped it into the stove. 

It gave me a peculiar satisfaction to see the flames leap 
up and devour it. 

At twenty minutes past seven on the following morn¬ 
ing we started across Paris in one of the usual ramshackle 
cabs to the Gare du Nord. 

It was a dull grey morning, full of a depressing atmos¬ 
pheric dampness and the pavements were shiny from a 


SPILLED WINE 


181 


recent shower. As we passed along the Boulevard St. 
Michel over the two bridges of the Seine into the Boule¬ 
vard de Sebastopol, the commercial life of the city was 
already in full swing. Sleek bourgeois shopkeepers stood 
laving their hands briskly in their doorways; big empty 
wagons lumbered past over the slippery cobble stones 
on their way from Les Halles. Blue-bloused workmen 
bent to the task of cleaning the morning’s garbage from 
the gutters, while plump matrons with large aprons and 
neatly coiffed bare heads went placidly about their day’s 
business. 

An air of dull respectability clothed scenes which only 
a few hours before had echoed to the exuberant merri¬ 
ment of the night’s revellers. Even the fagades of the 
cafes looked primly sober as though in keeping with the 
leaden dullness of the morning sky. 

I stared silently at all these things as we ambled leis¬ 
urely along. Once or twice a sharp indefinable pang 
twinged my heart-strings—and once or twice I shivered. 

Only thirty-five hours before I had driven through 
similar thoroughfares with Gustave on our way home 
from the Bal Bouillier to his appartement in the rue St. 
Honore. In imagination I heard again the words of 
passionate avowal that had poured like honeyed wine 
from his eager lips! Again I felt his arms embracing me, 
madly, caressingly! What would he think when he 
found me gone, his “golden singing-bird” already flown? 

For a while I allowed myself to dwell upon the possible 
emotions that my abrupt departure would cause him. 
I knew that he would be piqued, that his amour propre 
would receive a severe blow. I could picture him raging 
with baffled fury about the dainty salon of his apparte - 


i 82 


SPILLED WINE 


merit , his white teeth gritting, the little pulse throbbing 
fiercely in his full, round throat. I could picture the 
look of thwarted passion deepening to sullen rage in the 
red-brown pools of his eyes. But I could not bring my¬ 
self to be sorry for him. 

“In a week—a month—he will console himself/’ I 
told myself placidly. “He will find other victims more 
ready than I. . . . But I believe for the moment he 
really loved me—after his own fashion.” 

As the train moved northward and Paris faded from 
my vision in a shroud of pearly mist, a great relief shot 
up in me—a feeling almost instantly obliterated by an 
intense regret. 

I had grown to love Paris, to love her dearly and in¬ 
timately, in a way that I did not even then fully realize. 
But Paris held Gustave—and a memory which, in spite 
of my utmost attempts at self-deception, was growing 
each moment more repugnant. One day, when time had 
relegated that brief quixotic adventure to a position of 
relative unimportance in the galaxy of memory, one day, 
I promised myself, I would go back. But for the moment 
I was glad to be returning to England. 

The train journey to Calais was bitterly cold, and the 
sea passage exceptionally rough. Again Alma took ref¬ 
uge below while I paced the deck alone. 

Turning up my coat collar, I thrust my hands deep 
in my pockets, and struggled resolutely against the ever- 
changing list of the ship, the blustering wind and flying, 
soaking spray. As I did so, I found myself unconsciously 
recalling that other journey of nearly a year ago, thinking 
of the nameless, blue-eyed Englishman who for a few 


SPILLED WINE 


183 

brief hours had been such a delightful companion, but 
whose memory during the past months had gradually 
faded out of my mind. What a different girl I had been 
on that occasion! How much older I now seemed! How 
intensely wiser! How changed my whole outlook upon 
life had become! 

Little by little I found myself recalling our conversa¬ 
tions together. I found myself repeating almost word 
for word things he had said to me. 

“Has it ever occurred to you that you’re doing some 
thing unusual—that you’re taking a risk,” he had said. 
And of course I had laughed at him. 

“You’re very young—much too young to be running 
about the world on your own—and Paris isn’t London,” 
and again I had laughed. 

“Paris will have much to teach you,” he had said. 
“She has a way of robbing youth of its faith in the best 
side of human nature. . . . She is a vampire that slowly 
sucks the sane blood of health out of the veins of her 
victims. She breeds folly and hysteria and loss of self- 
respect. She gives you a golden peach with a worm in 
the heart of it. . . . In the midst of new experiences, 
readjustments of ideas, hold fast to that little bit of 
Anglo-Saxon prudery you may be in danger of coming 
to despise. . . . Don’t throw a single ideal overboard 
until you are quite sure that what you’re going to set 
up in its stead is something better.” 

A gust of wind caught me full in the face, flung me 
gasping and clutching against the railings. For some mo¬ 
ments I stood fighting for balance, my glazed eyes staring 
out unseeingly at the leaden, mountainous waves that 


184 SPILLED WINE 

spilt themselves with savage ferocity against the ship’s 
prow. 

“A peach with a worm in the heart of it. ... A worm 
. . . in the heart of it!” 

How true! How descriptive of the tawdry adventure 
through which I had just passed! If only I had listened! 

As though goaded by some fierce internal restlessness 
I renewed my walk along the deck, battling for breath 
in the teeth of the gale, my body flung forcefully from 
side to side. But in spite of this physical violence, above 
the shrieking noise of the wind, the booming crash of 
the sea, the still-small-voice of a newly awakened con¬ 
science pursued me mercilessly, evoking the subtle aid 
of memory. 

“You’re just starting out on the Great Adventure. 
You’ve got all life before you—and you have youth and 
health and ambition and talent with which to fight it. 
If you knew how lucky you were, what you might do 
with it all—if you only stick to your guns . . . and Fate 
is kind!” 

A cry broke suddenly from my lips. A wave of deso¬ 
lation rushed over my spirit, drenching it as the spray of 
the sea drenched my shivering body. Thinking of the 
nameless Stranger with whom I had talked for a few 
short hours nearly a year ago, I experienced my first 
genuine pang of shame. 

What would he think, I wondered, of my progress thus 
far? Would he be sorry? Or merely disgusted? Would 
he shrug his shoulders and set me down as a poor weak 
fool, unworthy even of the advice he had bothered to 
waste over me? 


SPILLED WINE 185 

For a while I speculated after this fashion. Then my 
common sense reasserted itself. 

“What does it matter what he would think?” I told 
myself impatiently. “You’ll never see him again, and 
he’s probably forgotten all about you by this time. Ann 
Fielding, pull yourself together! You’re degenerating 
into a sentimental idiot.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


/%FTER Paris London seemed very dull, a great 
sprawling drab-coloured mass of ill-conceived 
houses and uninteresting streets. I missed the gaiety, 
the chic, the light-hearted insouciance of the French 
capital—a sort of concentrated essence of whimsical 
badinage. I felt like a goldfish transplanted from an 
elaborately ornate aquarium into a rather muddy pond. 

And yet I was glad to be back again, inexpressibly 
glad. The rooms in Vine Street, in spite of a certain 
air of disuse—they had been empty for just over two 
months—welcomed us with an indisputable atmosphere 
of “home.” 

As we set to work putting things to rights again, re¬ 
arranging the furniture, opening the windows, lighting 
the fire, filling the vases with flowers, the past year 
seemed to melt away like a vivid and not altogether 
satisfactory dream. 

Within a week or so we had settled down anew into 
the old ruts of our former existence. Little by little, we 
drifted back into all the old haunts, renewed the several 
links of past acquaintances, gathered up the dropped 
threads of lapsed interests. At times I found it difficult 
to believe that we had ever been away from it all. Once 
more I was thoroughly practical and English. I shook 
myself free of the insidious influence of Paris as a dog 
shakes a wet coat. 

“And now,” I told myself earnestly, “for work—real 

186 


SPILLED WINE 


187 

steady hard work. No more trifling, no more wasting 
time—and no more ‘experiments.’ You’ve got to mean 
business.” 

And within a few days I was hard at work upon my 
first novel. 

As once before, inspiration came to me like a revela¬ 
tion, like a swift, broad-bosomed stream that carried 
everything before it. I worked continuously, tirelessly, 
with the serene effortless absorption peculiar to artistic 
creation. 

It was an ambitious novel, very modern in tone and 
tinged with the distilled cynicism of my past year’s ex¬ 
perience. It was daring, vigorous, unorthodox in every 
respect, and, I now realize, violently anti-social. Gone 
was the charm, the freshness, the vernal innocence of 
“;Esop Up-to-date.” The style was far cleverer. It 
bristled with keen barbs of satire. It made subtle mock 
of all those special virtues which the average English 
matron professes to venerate. For a girl of twenty to 
have written it, was, I think I may safely claim, some¬ 
thing of an achievement, but it was not in any real sense a 
good book. Judging it from the distance of ten years, 
in the clear light of an unbiased mind, I realize that there 
is a sort of moral crookedness about it. Sophistry drips 
from every sentence like honey from a broken comb. 
In it I can see, like a grinning satyr looking out of a 
bower of roses, the secret canker of the debacle through 
which I had just passed. It was as though, in the course 
of my search for Knowledge, Life had wilfully hurt me 
and this was my method of revenge. 

Years afterwards I once saw a corpse in a coffin, that 
of a young girl who had died from some loathsome dis- 


i88 


SPILLED WINE 


ease. The whole body, with the exception of a face of 
almost angelic beauty, was smothered in tuberoses, and as 
I stood looking down at it, the rank smell of rottenness 
and decay came suddenly to my nostrils through the 
sickly scent of the flowers. That is how “Petronia” now 
appeals to me. For years I have bitterly regretted having 
written it. Incidentally, I might add that it has enjoyed 
the largest sale of any book that I have ever published. 

I would like to make it clear that at the time of writing 
I was innocent of any evil or perverted intention. I did 
not scheme for notoriety, for the cheap triumph of the 
sensation-monger. I did not even trouble to consider 
how the public would receive the book should it have 
the good fortune to be accepted. I wrote under the urge 
of a moral irritant, to rid my brain of a festering poison. 

The very thought of Gustave was now an agony of 
self-disgust, and for this reason I was determined not to 
think of him. Consequently I threw myself into my 
work with the limitless energy which I have since dis¬ 
covered invariably comes to me as the reflex action of 
any great mental stress. 

The desired effect was achieved. Gustave and that 
final incident in Paris receded further and further into 
the background of my memory, until at length it came 
to seem quite unreal, like the substance of some almost 
forgotten dream. By April, when my novel was rapidly 
nearing completion, it had ceased to trouble me any 
further. One nail had effectively driven out another. 

“Petronia” was a book of seventy-five thousand words 
and I wrote it in a little over five months. Curiously 
enough, although it was the first novel I had ever written, 
I was never for a moment under any doubt as to its 


SPILLED WINE 


189 

success. I had worked at it entirely to please myself, 
but at the same time I was serenely confident of its 
saleable value. 

Even Alma’s air of puzzled bewilderment when I read 
it over to her did not alter this conviction. 

“But, my dear Ann,” she expostulated, obviously torn 
between a desire to be honest and an unwillingness to 
discourage me. “Whatever made you write it? The 
style’s wonderful of course—clever, brilliant, but—what¬ 
ever made you choose such a subject? And such a 
method of treatment? It’s so—so unconventional—and 
it isn’t really nice.” 

I gave a little self-assured laugh. 

“Of course it isn’t,” I admitted, “it’s a beastly book. 
That’s precisely why people will love to read it. It’s 
rather like a Father Vaughan sermon—but far more 
faithful to real life—and infinitely more artistic. I know 
people are supposed not to like having their pet vices 
pointed out to them, but, personally, I’m inclined to be¬ 
lieve that they secretly revel in it—if the telling is only 
made interesting enough. We’re not so civilized that 
we can’t appreciate a little honest brutality on occasions. 
I once read a story of a Russian who stripped a woman 
he was in love with and beat her naked body with a whip 
until it was covered with blood. He was described as 
experiencing thrills of delirious pleasure with each savage 
swish of the lash—and the woman adored him for doing 
it. I don’t say we’re all like that, but there is something 
cave-like and primitive in the meekest human walking 
about the world to-day. There are people who enjoy the 
sensation of being shocked and horrified and disgusted. 
It satisfies something in their natures that can’t find an 


190 


SPILLED WINE 


outlet in everyday life. With regard to Tetronia,’ al¬ 
though it’s out of the ordinary, you must admit that it 
isn’t vulgar—or extravagant, or overdone. I defy you to 
find a single improbable thing in it. It’s true—every 
word of it.” 

“You believe that?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“But, Ann darling, people aren’t all rotten—and cold 
and calculating and sly and selfish and greedy and—oh 
hateful! ” 

Her tones were so full of distress that for a moment I 
felt a twinge of compunction. 

“Not all, perhaps,” I allowed. “Not you, for instance. 
You’re a dear, the most trustful, generous, long-suffering 
angel that ever was. But then, you see, you’re very 
much in the minority—one of the exceptions that prove 
the rule—and one must write for the majority if one 
wants a big circulation.” 

She examined me thoughtfully for a moment, almost 
as though I had been a stranger. 

“How mercenary you’ve become,” she said. 

“All real, live, fully grown people are that,” I informed 
her. “Only children and dreamers and sentimental 
cranks work for ideals.” 

She hesitated, smiled a trifle wistfully and said: 

“I wonder which of the three I am?” 

I sent my novel to the publishers on the fourth of 
May, 1911. The fact is entered in my diary along with 
the above conversation with Alma. 

Then followed the inevitable period of slackness, of 
mouching round and generally letting the tightly tuned- 


SPILLED WINE 191 

up strings of my mental machinery go slack, like those of 
a discarded fiddle. 

Once more I awoke to the phenomenon of a season 
flown, of finding winter already over and early summer 
close upon the tracks of spring. 

Having nothing in particular to do and not feeling in 
the mood to begin any fresh work I developed a habit of 
going for long solitary rambles by myself. I set out to 
explore such places as Kew Gardens and Teddington 
and Hampton Court. I went eastward to Greenwich and 
Stepney and the East India Docks. I made a futile 
plunge into Chinatown and came away with a general 
impression of filthy, swarming children, narrow tortuous 
back streets, and a complete disillusionment as to the 
romantic possibilities of that neighbourhood. And some¬ 
times I went west to more familiar haunts, to Hyde Park 
and Kensington and the Embankment Gardens. Along 
the neat, asphalt paths of the latter I paced for hours 
one calm spring evening, thinking of Martin and of the 
occasions when we had walked there together. 

I thought very little of my book. I was not the least 
impatient or anxious concerning its fate. I just swam 
in a contented backwater of relaxed effort, enjoying the 
sunshine and clear skies, the tulips and daffodils and 
wall-flowers and stocks and mignonette and roses that 
one by one replaced each other in the flower-beds of the 
public gardens, the chirping birds, the leafing trees, the 
vivid sprouting grass, all the hundred and one signs of a 
serenely beneficent nature. 

“London’s not such a bad place after all,” I thought 
complacently. “She’s more restful than Paris. She’s 


192 


SPILLED WINE 


like a woman with cool, peaceful hands and steady grey 
eyes. She helps one to work—Paris hinders.” 

An odd feeling of rejuvenation, of beginning over 
again” possessed me. All the folly and fever of that year 
in France seemed to sink away into oblivion, to fall from 
me like a tattered cloak. It was as though the virgin 
breath of the English spring were bathing me in a magic, 
purifying liquid, washing away the guilty stain of the 
past. 

The future opened out before me, smooth and straight, 
and pleasant, like some nobly planned avenue. I re¬ 
newed my childish trick of day-dreaming, of building 
happy castles in the air. 

“I shall work steadily on year after year,” I mused, 
“I shall earn sufficient money to live comfortably—to 
gratify all my desires. By the time I’m thirty I may be 
quite well off—even famous! If this book is a success 
it will make a lot of difference, it will increase the value 
of everything I write. . . . And after a while I shall begin 
to travel! I think I shall begin with Italy—Italy and 
Spain and Greece and Egypt and Turkey and Palestine! 
And then—let me see—yes, India and the Far East— 
Japan! China! ... It will be wonderful! Wonderful! 

. . . I shall just wander on as I please, stopping wherever 
I feel inclined, exploring the whole world, writing about 
anything I fancy, growing ever wiser, happier, more ex¬ 
perienced, more successful! ... I shall make all sorts of 
friends! Clever, famous, interesting people will be 
pleased to know me! I shall be able to pick and choose! 
Ah! ... Life will be very full! Crowded to the brim 
with fascinating adventure!” 


SPILLED WINE 


i 93 

It was during this period of waiting that Martin wrote 
asking me to marry him. 

“At last I feel justified in putting into words the great 
hope which you must have always guessed was in my 
heart,” he wrote. “I longed to ask you that night at 
Margate, but for many reasons I knew that it would not 
have been right for me to do so. You were such a child. 
So inexperienced. You could not possibly have been 
expected to know your own mind. Also, my financial 
prospects were too indefinite. Now, with any luck at 
all, I think it will not be long before I shall be in a 
position to marry, at any rate with reasonable comfort 
and the hope of better things later on.” 

And he went on to sketch out his plans for the im¬ 
mediate future. 

“Oh, my darling, think well before you answer. Don’t 
refuse me unless you really must. It means so much to 
me, more than you could ever possibly guess. It has 
been the star of divine hope that has guided me ever 
since our parting nearly three years ago. ... A year 
ago I felt almost sure of you. From your letters it 
seemed as though you must love me in return, that you 
must have understood all that I was feeling for you. 
Then, gradually, something seemed to come between us— 
to obscure my vision of you. I seemed to get out of 
touch with you—out of sympathy. It was as though 
you were deliberately hiding, drifting away from me. . . . 
Oh, my darling, my very dear, come back again! I want 
you! I want you so badly, that I find it difficult to 
think of a future without you. ... I don’t know how 
to express all I feel. If I were with you I could put my 
arms about you and kiss you as I did that night on the 


194 


SPILLED WINE 


beach. It isn’t fair to have to plead my cause in writing, 
but I feel that I can’t wait any longer—that already I 
may have waited too long. I am so far away from you. 
Any moment something may happen to snatch you 
irrevocably beyond my reach. I live in fear of that. 
And oh, my little Ann, I love you. I love you so dearly 
that no other woman has ever had the very slightest 
effect upon me. They’re all just women. Whilst you 
are you, the most splendid, the most wonderful girl in 
the world. ... If you will marry me I can arrange to 
come back to England immediately. A wild impatience 
has come over me as I write. I want to come and kneel 
before you, I want to tell you things—things I can’t 
possibly put into writing. I want to be always near you, 
to love you and look after you and help you. I want to 
be your humble willing slave and your eternal lover. If 
you will accept me I will do all in my power to make 
you truly happy.” 

This letter from Martin moved me strangely. I was 
not surprised to get it. For nearly three years I had 
been more or less expecting it, but now that it had come, 
I was surprised at the effect it had upon me. In a flash 
it revived all my old warm-hearted affection for the 
writer. I thought of the wonderful unbroken companion¬ 
ship that had existed between us for nearly nine years. 
I remembered the long jolly talks we used to have to¬ 
gether, the walks and cycle rides, the plans we had made 
and the dreams we had dreamed, and a great tenderness, 
an almost maternal yearning, awoke in my heart for him. 

Supposing I did decide to marry him, would it not, 
after all, be a rather sensible arrangement? We had 
always been such friends, we had never bored one an- 


SPILLED WINE 


i9S 


other. Was it likely that any other man would ever offer 
me such selfless devotion, such an amazing proof of 
loyalty? 

Of late I had grown more and more resigned to our 
separation. Other interests had taken the place that once 
had been completely absorbed by our friendship. Now, 
abruptly, it was as though Martin stood beside me, plead¬ 
ing with me, holding out his arms towards me, those 
arms that had been the first to passionately enfold me. 
I saw again the look in his troubled grey eyes as he bent 
and kissed my wrist that evening on the Surrey hills. 
I heard again the sobbing anguish of his voice as he bade 
me “good-bye” on the beach that long ago summer’s 
night—and suddenly, almost for the first time in my 
life, I felt lonely. An indescribable sensation akin to 
homesickness swept over me. 

“I suppose I’ll have to marry somebody some day,” I 
reasoned vaguely, “and where could I find a more sym¬ 
pathetic, a more devoted husband than Martin?” 

I had taken his letter with me to Kensington Gardens, 
and for a long time after I had finished reading it I sat 
idly ruminating upon the possibilities which such a mar¬ 
riage would entail. Finally, when the sun had set and 
the air grown faintly chilly, I got up from my seat, folded 
the several pages of the letter, and went thoughtfully 
home. 

“I’ll give myself a week to think about it anyway,” I 
told myself as my ’bus jolted its way over Chelsea 
ridge. “I might do very much worse—and it would be 
nice to have him back again!” 

The week was almost up when I received a letter from 


SPILLED WINE 


196 

Messrs. Stebbing & Wade, the publishers to whom I had 
sent my novel, asking for an interview. 

Four days later I signed an agreement by which I con¬ 
tracted to sell them the publishing rights of “Petronia,” 
and to give them the first refusal of my next three books, 
under the terms which I afterwards discovered to be ex¬ 
tremely favourable to a beginner. 

As I walked away from the offices in Essex Street, my 
brain seemed on fire with excitement. I had taken the 
first step upwards on the ladder of success. There should 
be no looking back now, no resting until the highest rung 
was reached. Already in imagination I saw myself rich, 
famous, a power in the literary world. I saw my wildest 
aims pledged to ultimate triumph! 

I walked from Fleet Street to Piccadilly Circus with¬ 
out being conscious of anything that was happening 
around me. By the time I reached home my inclinations 
on the subject of marriage with Martin had undergone 
a subtle change. My feelings of loneliness had vanished. 
Once more Ambition towered before me like some splen¬ 
did Goddess, dazzling me with the wonder of her smile. 

“After all,” I decided, “I don’t think I shall ever 
marry. One couldn’t do justice to a career and a hus¬ 
band at the same time.” 

And so, as gently as posible but quite definitely, I 
wrote and told Martin that I could never be his wife. 

“I’ve thought about it carefully,” I said, “and I’ve 
come to the conclusion that my writing will always hold 
first place in my life—and that to marry under such con¬ 
ditions wouldn’t be fair to you. As it is, I can’t help 
feeling that I’ve done you a wrong somehow, cheated 
you, but I haven’t meant to. Please forgive me! . . . 


SPILLED WINE 


197 


I’ve loved our friendship. As I told you long ago, there’ll 
never be anyone to take your place—but as a wife I’m 
afraid I should prove a disappointment. I think I’m 
one of those women who aren’t meant to marry. I’m too 
selfish—far too selfish, I couldn’t find pleasure in the 
ordinary little ‘homey’ things that other women do. . . 

It was some weeks before I received his answer. 

“I won’t say that my heart is broken,” he wrote, “but 
I feel that it’ll never be quite the same heart again. Part 
of me seems dead—buried in the Golden Tomb of the 
Past—in a shroud of rosy dreams. ... I’m not blaming 
you, dear. If you don’t love me sufficiently it wouldn’t 
have been a scrap of good. Above all else, I want you 
to be happy. I hope you may be very successful—that 
every wish of your heart may be gratified. . . . I’ve 
decided not to come back to England—at least, not for 
some time. I’ve had an offer to go to New York. I 
think I shall take it. ...” 

Thus it came about that the first friend of my child¬ 
hood, perhaps the most genuine I ever had, finally faded 
out of my life. Years later I was to see him once more 
under circumstances of peculiar pathos, but we never 
wrote to one another again. 


CHAPTER XV 


I BEGAN to seek about after the theme of a new 
novel only to discover that my brain was now as 
empty of ideas as previously it had been full. 

I attempted short story after short story but with no 
better result. They were all stereotyped, artificial, life¬ 
less. My characters moved like puppets pulled by vis¬ 
ible strings. My plots aped the shoddy fabrications of 
the penny novelette. For some reason that I cannot ex¬ 
plain I found myself absolutely unable to work. Just 
as the gaiety of Paris had distracted me, so now the 
pulsing beauty of the English spring bewitched me. I 
dreamed of sauntering through shady woods, of burying 
my face in the bright gold of buttercups, of steeping my 
feet in little laughing streams, of letting the winds of 
heaven thrust teasing fingers through my ruffled hair. 

The very sight of my desk became hateful to me. The 
walls of the studio seemed to press in upon me like the 
stifling walls of a prison. 

“I don’t know what in the world’s the matter with 
me!” I exclaimed impatiently to Alma, as I stood watch¬ 
ing her one morning as she worked upon a design for a 
book cover in sepia and gold and crimson. “There must 
be something radically wrong with my make-up. Other 
people don’t behave so absurdly. Look at yourself, for 
instance! You just go on pegging away, day after day, 

month after month. You never seem stuck for an idea, 

198 


SPILLED WINE 


199 


drained dry of the tiniest atom of inspiration. Your hand 
never seems to go on strike like my brain. IVe never 
once seen you stare at a piece of drawing paper with the 
same blank despair I sometimes stare at a writing block. 
You seem to be able to turn on your genius like turning 
on a tap. Why is it?” 

“Well-” She hesitated, gently tapping her teeth 

with the end of a paintbrush as she considered the mat¬ 
ter. “Perhaps the reason is that it isn’t genius.” 

“No, no, that’s no answer. You have genius—or what 
ninety-nine people out of a hundred mean when they say 
‘genius,’ that spark of super-talent that produces work 
far and away above the average. But it’s genius in 
harness. You’ve learnt the trick of driving it always at 
a steady pace in the right direction. Now mine wants 
to be all over the shop. There’s simply no holding it in. 
For five months I worked like a nigger—and jolly good 
stuff it was too—and now here I am, incapable of pro¬ 
ducing a single sentence that’s fit to read, that isn’t the 
most unutterable soul-sickening piffle-” 

She smiled, added a golden vein to the feather of an 
eagle’s wing and regarded me quizzically, her head upon 
one side like a cogitating bird’s. 

“I think,” she suggested, “the trouble probably is that 
you go at it too hard while you are at it—spend your 
energies too recklessly. If you could only learn to hus¬ 
band your forces as it were, put a check on yourself, 
take things more calmly, you probably wouldn’t swing so 
violently from one mood to another.” 

I shrugged impatiently, and walking away from her 
stood looking vaguely out of the open window. 

“That may be good advice,” I admitted, “but who 




2 00 


SPILLED WINE 


ever heard of an artist—a real artist—acting upon it? 
When one is working at full pressure, deliciously, exhil- 
aratingly, without the least consciousness of fatigue, who 
would deliberately slow down? Oh, my dear, it simply 
couldn’t be done—it couldn’t!” L 

She put her paintbrush into a little jar of water and 
began gently to rinse it. Then, still looking across at 
me, she slowly shook her head. 

“In that case,” she replied, “I’m afraid you’ll just 
have to put up with things.” 

I sighed, stretched my arms above my head and then 
let them fall heavily to my sides again. 

“I suppose so,” I agreed. “But it’s a nuisance. It 
leaves me at such a loose end—as though I were waiting 
all the time for something to happen, for Fate to make 
the next move in the game. It makes me so horribly 
restless—irritable.” 

There was silence for a moment; then Alma suggested- 

“P’raps you want a tonic—or some sort of change? 
P’raps it’s the weather. I’ve noticed you’re always rest¬ 
less about this time of the year.” 

In a flash my unseeing eyes became filled with vision. 
I looked away into the distance, over neighbouring roof¬ 
tops, into a sky of turquoise blue; I saw a little white 
cloud, like a puff of swansdown, go sailing airily towards 
the river; I heard an errand boy go whistling gaily along 
the opposite side of the street; I became aware of a 
bunch of sparrows chirping madly under the eaves; I 
drew in a long, deep breath and caught the mingling scent 
of jasmine and honeysuckle that grew in the next-door 
garden—and a sudden rush of sheer physical delight 
welled up in me. 


SPILLED WINE 


201 


“I believe you’re right!” I cried. “I’ve got ‘stale,’ 
that’s all, and it’s no good trying to force things. The 
result’s never worth while. I shall just wait patiently 
until the mood takes hold of me again. After all one 
book in five months isn’t bad! I can afford to laze for 
a bit!” 

With a pleasant consciousness of having shelved my 
difficulties I moved briskly across the room towards the 
door. My feet had lost their heaviness, my brain its 
sense of wearisome incompetence. 

“I think I’ll go out,” I announced. “It’s a crime to 
be indoors on a morning like this.” 

Five minutes later, humming the same tune the errand 
boy had whistled, I went blithely down the stairs and 
out into the street. 

A band was playing somewhere in Hyde Park. It was 
just far enough away to come drifting with a certain 
intriguing air of lyrical uncertainty to the spot where I 
sat idly dreaming beneath the shade of a low-spreading 
chestnut. 

Equestrians were taking gentle exercise along the Row. 
Children and nursemaids and dogs—together with that 
elusive flotsam and jetsam of unplaceable humans whose 
practice it is to lie prone and sleeping, like so many 
shabby corpses, upon the vivid grass—were all enjoying 
the warm sunshine that spilled like golden ether through 
the freshly foliaged trees. 

A feeling of inestimable felicity lapped about me as 
I sat upon my little green chair and prepared to while 
away the morning in shameless sloth. Now that I had 
deliberately decided not to worry about the inspiration 


202 


SPILLED WINE 


which eluded me, I became aware of a beatific content¬ 
ment. I began to “build castles,” to drift and drift . . . 
to steep myself in a mood of drowsy, physical enjoyment. 
A spell that was almost hypnotic settled over my spirit. 
I ceased to be conscious even of thought. One by one the 
moments drifted by like sunlit ripples on a glassy stream. 

Then, abruptly, a new element crept into my mood. 
A sense of apprehension clouded the calm mirror of my 
mind very much as a shadow heralds the approach of a 
solid object. I had an uncanny feeling that something 
was about to happen. 

It was the feeling of an actor awaiting his cue, of an 
eagle poised for flight. With a sensation of what I be¬ 
lieve occultists call “being controlled,” I closed my eyes 
and seemed to wait. . . . 

I don’t know how long I had remained in this con¬ 
dition when my attention was attracted by the barking 
of a small dog, followed by a sharp, clear whistle and a 
man’s voice calling out, “Here—Adolphus!” 

At the sound of the voice my eyes flew open as at 
some prearranged signal; my whole body stiffened and 
grew alert. I knew that my cue had come! 

About twenty yards away, and walking quickly to¬ 
wards me under the trees, strode a young man. He 
walked with the swinging grace of a young athlete. 
Every movement had the unmistakable resilience of 
youth and health and high spirits. I judged him to be 
about twenty-three or four. 

For the first few moments, seen under the low, droop¬ 
ing boughs of the trees, he seemed almost unnaturally 
tall. He was dressed in a light, heather-mixture golfing 
jacket and trousers, with brown brogue shoes—the sort 


SPILLED WINE 


203 


of clothes one would expect to meet in a country lane 
rather than in a London park—and in one hand he 
carried a cane walking-stick and in the other his cap. 

As he walked, the sunlight, filtering through the leaves, 
slid over him in flickering fretwork patches. Then, with 
an effect of dazzling suddenness, he came out into the 
open and I saw that his hair was fair, almost golden, 
and that it was worn brushed carelessly back from a 
face of almost classic beauty. 

Instinctively Eaone’s description of the young Paris 
flashed into my mind: 

“White-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved, 

... his sunny hair 

Clustered about his temples like a God’s: 

. . . and all my heart 

Went forth to embrace his coming ere he came.” 

Something seemed to leap up within me, to give a great 
shout of joy! 

I wanted to get up and run to meet him. . . . 

And now I come to a part of my story that ought to 
be one of the easiest to tell, but which is, as a matter of 
fact, one of the most difficult. 

It is the story of my first genuine love affair. 

When I wrote of Gustave de Courcy it was with the 
calm, dissecting pen of an impersonal review. When I 
write of Terrance Conningham it is with the obscuring 
bias of lingering emotion. The incidents connected with 
those first golden moments of our acquaintance are 
among the most vivid of all my memories, yet at the 
same time they are the most blurred, the most lacking 
in reliable detail. 


2 04 


SPILLED WINE 


There are many things in life which defy the investiga¬ 
tions of logic. The lightning-like rapprochement of two 
people destined to fall in love is one of them. 

The idyl which began that June morning in a London 
park will remain for ever utterly incomprehensible to 
me. I cannot explain it, the suddenness of its beginning, 
the delirious rhapsody of its irresistible progress, any 
more than I could explain my infatuation for Gustave, 
any more than ninety-nine people out of a hundred can 
explain the mad impulse which, at certain periods of 
their lives, drives them inexorably into the arms of the 
particular mate which the moment has cunningly pro¬ 
vided. 

Just so can I imagine two young leopards in a jungle 
meeting, supple and vigorous and strong, each quivering 
with the fully charged battery of imperative instinct, 
each eager for the gift the other can give. 

It was a wonderful morning, full of the magic at¬ 
mosphere of “promise” and we—two care-free, healthy 
humans in the full bloom of our mating glory. No Apollo 
Belvedere ever stretched finer limbs in the warm sun¬ 
shine, ever lifted a nobler head on a more splendid pair 
of shoulders or laughed with a fuller, richer note than 
this engaging young stranger whom Fate had so be- 
wilderingly sent me; whilst, for my own part, I am 
compelled to believe that he found me equally attractive. 

I can’t remember the exact peg upon which we hung 
the excuse of our introduction. I rather fancy it was 
Adolphus, the little wire-haired, lop-eared terrier who 
came yapping and nozzling about my knees, but even if 
there had been no dog I am convinced that no power 
on earth could have prevented us from getting to know 


SPILLED WINE 


205 


one another. In common parlance we “picked one an¬ 
other up,” brazenly, with an air of being impelled by 
something above mere casual inclination. 

Almost before I was aware of what was happening, 
my golden-haired stranger had availed himself of the 
second of the little green chairs—which you must have 
observed are invariably arranged in twos by a thoughtful 
park etiquette—and drifted into a delightfully casual 
and friendly conversation. 

As he stretched his long legs out before him, his cap 
on his knees, the end of his cane leisurely prodding in the 
soft turf, I found myself regarding him with an ever- 
increasing sense of pleasure. 

He was handsome in a clear-skinned, loose-limbed, 
out-of-door sort of way, the way that bespeaks good 
breeding and plenty of athletic games. He talked with 
the eager naivete of a boy, a slight Irish brogue colouring 
his university English. He flashed sudden, quizzical 
glances out of the corners of his attractive greenish- 
amber eyes. He created the impression that he was en¬ 
joying himself hugely. 

“You know this is grand! Top-hole!” he said. “I only 
came up from Elmstree yesterday. Thought I’d hate 
London after the country—but I don’t. It’s jolly! 
Stunning! Just look at those trees. I’ve never seen them 
so green before.” 

“Don’t you live in London?” I asked him, conscious 
of a sudden absurd hope that he would say he did. 

He flashed me one of his tawny glances. 

“Yes and no,” he said. “I’m supposed to live here, 
I’m supposed to be studying engineering at the Technical 
Engineering College, Westminster, but I’ve got a little 


206 


SPILLED WINE 


cottage down at Elmstree and I sneak away for odd week¬ 
ends whenever I get the chance.” 

“I see,” I observed, and after a moment I added, 
“You don’t like town life?” 

“Hate it, ’cept for a change now and then. One’s so 
cooped up—stifled! One can’t seem to fill one’s lungs 
properly. Give me a horse or a gun or a golf-club and 
I’m happy. But it isn’t so bad now I’ve got a car. I 
can get out to places like Edgware and Pinner in an hour 
easily.” 

He broke off, .turned towards me and went on eagerly. 

“It’s a jolly little car—two-seater runabout, painted 
yellow. Only bought her the week before last. You 
must come for a spin.” 

“Oh!” I gasped. 

“Why not?” 

“I’d love to, but-” 

“ ‘But me no buts,’ I’ll bring her round to-morrow. 
It’s a shame not to take advantage of such glorious 
weather. We’ll go to Maidenhead and have a boat out. 
They do you a ripping lunch at ‘Skindle’s.’ ” 

In this airy fashion he swept aside my slightest show 
of hesitation. He seemed to take it for granted that the 
acquaintance so casually begun would continue indef¬ 
initely, and I, for my part, found myself oddly reluctant 
to disturb such a conviction. 

An hour later we were still seated together under the 
drooping boughs of the horse-chestnut tree. In that time 
we had discovered a good deal about one another. 

I had learnt, for instance, that my companion’s name 
was Terrance Conningham, generally shortened to 



SPILLED WINE 


207 

“Terry,” that he was an orphan, that his mother had 
been English—a second cousin of Lord Bagshott’s—and 
his father a lovable Irishman with a genius for engineer¬ 
ing but a total incapacity for saving money, that they 
had both died whilst he, Terry, was still in his early 
’teens, and that since that time he had been left to the 
guardianship of a wealthy, cantankerous old uncle named 
Daniel Casterbridge, whose heir he understood himself 
to be. 

“I was at Oxford three years,” he told me, “and when 
I left, eighteen months ago, I decided to go in for en¬ 
gineering. It interests me tremendously—from the point 
of view of inventions, striking out on new lines, all that 
sort of thing—but I hate the cut-and-dried part. I’m too 
restless! I want to be up and doing! I wanted to go 
abroad for a few years—the colonies, Australia or India 
for choice—but Uncle Dan wouldn’t hear of it. Thought 
I’d get into bad company or something, I s’pose, and— 
well, as he holds the purse-strings there simply wasn’t 
anything to be done about it. I don’t know that it mat¬ 
ters very much after all. I’ve got plenty of time for 
seeing the world later on. I’m only twenty-three.” 

He broke off, swished at the grass with his cane and 
then added: 

“There, that’s me in a nutshell. Now tell me about 
yourself. Where you live and what you do and—and 
all about you. Tell me everything.” 

I began by saying that my name was Ann. 

He nodded. 

“I like it,” he commented. “It suits you. It’s—it’s 
distinguished somehow, without being artificial—like the 
names of heroines in novels. It’s got character. Go on!” 


208 


SPILLED WINE 


And obediently I proceeded to give him a rough sum¬ 
mary of my life so far, gliding lightly over the greater 
part of it; picking out bits that I thought might interest 
him. When I came to speak of my writing, of the novel 
that was already accepted and about to be published his 
whole face lit up with frank amazement. 

“A novelist! Phew! Well, \I never! Who’d have 
thought it? And you look a—a kid, just a jolly kid!” 

“I’m twenty-one next September,” I informed him. 

“But I never supposed anyone wrote books as young 
as that. You must be fearfully clever.” 

“Not at all. It’s only something that seems to come 
naturally—like your engineering.” 

He laid his stick across his knees and waved a dep¬ 
recating arm. 

“Who ever heard of comparing engineering with writ¬ 
ing novels?” he cried. “Why they simply aren’t in the 
same street. Any fool could learn to turn a lathe and 
put cogs together!” 

The note of ardent admiration that throbbed in his 
eager voice was the sweetest music I had ever listened to. 

I had lost all count of time, I had journeyed into the 
far country of Romance, where time simply didn’t exist, 
when the sonorous booming of Big Ben informed me 
that it was one o’clock. 

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, and jumped up in¬ 
stantly out of my little green chair. “I’d no idea it was 
as late as that.” 

“Great Christopher, nor had I!” said Terry, hauling 
himself reluctantly to his long legs. “I’ve never known 
a morning fly so quickly!” 

“I—I must go at once,” I said hurriedly. 


SPILLED WINE 209 

A look of blank dismay wiped the smile from my 
companion’s lips. 

“Go? Oh but—surely you needn’t? I mean you don’t 
have to?” he implored. 

I had put out my hand in farewell and as he took it 
in his I felt his warm fingers curl persuasively about 
mine. 

“It’s awful—losing you again—like this—just when 
I’d found you,” he coaxed. “Surely you could stay if 
you really wanted to? I was hoping you’d have lunch 
with me. I know such a jolly little place in Coventry 
Street.” 

I hesitated, glanced inquiringly up into his face and 
then hurriedly down at the grass. Irrelevantly I noticed 
a sprinkling of buttercup pollen on the toe of one of his 
brown shoes. 

“I ought to go,” I reflected uncertainly. 

“But you won’t? Please say you won’t? Say you’ll 
stay with me instead?” 

Again some magnet drew my gaze upward. I found 
myself looking into the golden depths of his eyes and 
thinking how attractive they were. 

Suddenly, in spite of myself, I smiled. 

“If you—really want me to-” I began. 

With a disconcerting “whoop” of triumph, he dropped 
my hand and sent his cap twirling into the air. 

“Bien!” he cried. “Come on, Adolphus, Madame la 
Princesse condescends to eat with us. Put on your best 
behaviour and walk behind us like a well-trained, self- 
respecting dog. We’re going to see what your namesake 
at Puchini’s can do for us in the way of a truly recherche 
meal.” 



210 


SPILLED WINE 


At the park gates Terry hailed a taxi and we went 
along Piccadilly, turning off into Jermyn Street, where, 
at the entrance to a block of pleasant-looking “cham¬ 
bers,” Adolphus was safely deposited in the care of the 
doorkeeper. 

Ten minutes later we sat facing one another over the 
snowy napery of a select, first-floor restaurant whose 
windows commanded an uninterrupted view from Leices¬ 
ter Square to Piccadilly Circus. 

Over the meal, which consisted principally of duckling 
and green peas and a very special sort of chocolate ice 
with petits fours , we continued our conversation. 

What we talked about I scarcely know; at one moment 
airy, trivial nothings—at the next, intimate personal mat¬ 
ters. We wandered like children in a garden, carelessly 
plucking first this flower of conversation and then that. 
Turn by turn we made quaint, unexpected confessions to 
one another. We swung inexplicably from mood to mood, 
now thoughtful, now eager, now solemn, now gay. And 
all the while we were conscious of some inexplicable 
power controlling us, turning our most ordinary remarks 
into words of pure magic, knitting us ever closer and 
closer in that strange bond of nascent sympathy that no 
man can fully explain. 

After lunch we went to the newly opened cinema in 
Regent Street. 

I don’t know what the pictures were about. We didn’t 
even pretend to look at them. 

Each moment I grew more and more disturbingly 
conscious of Terry’s nearness. His face was like wax in 
the flickering darkness. His eyes had an appearance of 
mystery. The peculiar smell of his homespun tweed came 


SPILLED WINE 


2 11 


faintly to my nostrils. Once his hand touched mine, ac¬ 
cidentally, and sent wild, delicious thrills along every 
nerve in my body. 

Something began to sing inside me, to twirl and leap 
in a crazy dance. . . . 

At half-past five we were lingering happily over a 
secluded table in a little Bond Street tea-shop. 

“I wonder if you’ll believe me,” Terry was saying as 
he leaned towards me over the pink heads of half a dozen 
exquisite la France roses, “when I tell you that this has 
been the most wonderful day of my life, the most won¬ 
derful adventure that has ever happened to me? I’ve 
often dreamed of meeting a girl—just like you—just like 
this—the sort of thing one reads about in books—but 
somehow I never expected it to come off in real life. . . . 
Ever since the moment you first looked up at me, under 
that tree in the park, I’ve been living in heaven. I’ve 
been afraid I might wake up any moment and find it 
was only a dream. . . . I’m still afraid—afraid to let 
you out of my sight in case I may never find you again. 
. . . I can’t picture the world without you now. You’ve 
changed everything, somehow, and I’ve only known you 
six hours—six short hours! Oh Ann, little Ann, what 
have you done to me?” 

A rush of happiness swept over me, flooding my very 
soul with joy. Until Terry’s lips had spoken it I had 
never guessed how beautiful my name could sound. 
What had I done to him, indeed? What had he done 
to me? What had Fate done to both of us? 

We went back to Chelsea on the top of a ’bus under a 
starry, violet sky. We held hands, timidly, like children 
in the dusk, and we said very little. I think we were 


212 


SPILLED WINE 


both more than a trifle overawed by the bewildering im¬ 
mensity of the Thing that had happened to us. . . . 

When we said good-bye at the corner of Vine Street 
it was with an effect of strange solemnity. I had a feel¬ 
ing of having been suddenly swept by Fate into a tide of 
circumstances over which I had no control. 


CHAPTER XVI 


T HERE began for me a period of the most exquisite 
happiness which I suppose it is possible for any 
human being to experience. 

For the first time in my life I was in love, really and 
truly in love. All day long my heart sang like a bird 
in my breast, and at night I dreamed of Terry and woke 
to the glowing ecstasy of a world made wonderful by 
the mere fact of his existence. My very soul went up 
like sacrificial incense before the altar of my love. It 
was as though, in the course of my humdrum journey 
through life, I had suddenly been invited to step into a 
king’s chariot, to share the throne of a god. 

Everything that had ever happened before the moment 
when my darling came swinging towards me under the 
dappled branches of the spreading chestnuts, took on 
an atmosphere of triviality, of total unimportance. Am¬ 
bition went out like a candle flame in a puff of wind. I 
ceased to give so much as a stray thought to my writing. 
For the time being I was content to love and be loved. 
I asked no greater bounty of the gods. 

Terry was an ideal lover. His treatment of me swung 
alternately from masterful arrogance to grovelling humil¬ 
ity. He would be tender and fierce and wheedling and 
passionate and timid and reckless and bashful and eager 
all in turn. He loved as only the very young can love, 

before experience has learnt to set a drag upon the beat- 

213 


14 SPILLED WINE 

ing heart of youth, to rob impulse of its unconsidered 
charm. 

As day followed day we spent an amazing amount of 
time together. We did all the usual things that any two 
people under similar circumstances would be expected 
to do. We dawdled in parks, lingered pleasantly in 
restaurants and hotels, went to exhibitions and cinemas 
and theatres, and floated serenely in punts on the river. 
Best of all we took long spins out into the open country 
in the little two-seater car of which Terry was so proud. 

As the weather grew warmer we went further and 
further afield, sometimes providing ourselves with picnic 
hampers, sometimes taking “pot luck” at wayside inns, 
or in the quaint parlours of tiny rural cottages. And in 
the evenings, when the sun had set and the hush of twi¬ 
light had crept like a purple veil over the blurred face 
of the landscape, we would drive back again to town, our 
wheels humming joyfully over the white roads, hedges 
and trees flying by on either side like shimmering ghosts 
in the bright gleam of the head-lights. 

And we were happy! Ah! How can I hope to de¬ 
scribe how happy we were! The raptures of “love’s 
young dream” have been dwelt upon so often in prose 
and poem that it seems superfluous to enlarge upon them. 
Yet however often this amazing thing we call “falling in 
love” may happen, it is always brand-new, incredible, 
unprecedented to the two people concerned. Year by 
year, month by month, hour by hour the miracle repeats 
itself all over this hoary old globe of ours. It is like a 
rhythmic pulse-beat in the veins of nature. It is the most 
wonderful thing that ever happens to any of us. Though 
we go down to the sea in ships or climb the topmost 


SPILLED WINE 


215 


mountain, though we live to be generals of armies, pro¬ 
fessors of science or prime ministers of state, we never 
do anything quite so splendid, so exquisitely astonishing, 
as when first we fall in love. 

From the outset it was an understood thing that we 
should be married as soon as possible. We were full of 
the impatient ardour of youth. Day by day our desire 
for one another grew stronger, our intolerance of delay 
more urgent. 

“I feel as if Fate were cheating us, every time we say 
‘Good night!’ ” Terry whispered one evening as he stood 
holding my hand in the moment of parting. “Twelve 
hours gone each time! Twelve magic hours of darkness 
when we might be loving one another so wonderfully! 
It isn’t as if we were sure of things either—even sure of 
to-morrow. When one is very happy one grows afraid. 
Life plays such brutal tricks sometimes. One of us might 
die! I might be run over five minutes after leaving you! 
And then we’d never have belonged to one another. Our 
waiting would all have been in vain!” 

A shiver ran over me at his words, at the vague note 
of Celtic superstition that coloured them. In a sudden 
access of fear I clung to his arm. 

“Don’t! Please don’t say such things!” I begged. 
“It’s like tempting ill-fortune—somehow.” 

“But, Kiddy darling, if you only knew how I want 
you, how impatient I am, what a white-hot furnace is 
raging inside me! If you knew how I lie awake in the 
darkness thinking of you—aching for you!” 

“But I do, I do!” I protested fervently. “Isn’t it just 
the same for me?” 

“Is it?” He bent his head and searched my face in the 


2l6 


SPILLED WINE 


deepening dusk. “Is it?” he repeated. “I don’t know. 
Is it ever quite the same for a girl?” 

I leaned closer to him. I took his hands in mine and 
pressed them tight against my breast. I felt myself 
tremble with the stress of my emotion. 

“I think it is—with some girls,” I whispered. “When 
they love—as I love you, Terry.” 

In a flash his arms were about me. He held me so 
closely that I could scarcely breathe. 

“You darling! You sweet!” he breathed. “How 
happy you make me, how wildly happy! But I shall 
never rest until you are really my wife, until I have got 
you altogether.” 

This question of our marriage thrust itself more and 
more urgently upon us. We could talk or think of little 
else. The whole scheme of both our lives seemed to 
revolve and concentrate upon the vital necessity of our 
union. 

Unfortunately the moment we came down to workaday 
facts we realized the difficulties that beset us. Beyond 
a hundred pounds a year, which he had inherited from 
his mother, Terry had no money of his own; he was 
entirely dependent upon the good-will of his uncle, 
Daniel Casterbridge. 

“He makes me an allowance of another two hundred 
and pays all expenses connected with my studies,” Terry 
explained to me. “And when he dies, if I’ve contrived 
not to offend him in the meantime, I shall inherit all his 
money—which I believe amounts to a very considerable 
fortune. The trouble is he’s the crustiest, stubbornest 
old blighter you ever came across. There’s no love lost 


SPILLED WINE 


217 

between us. He’s only made me his heir because I 
happen to be the sole male descendant of the family, 
but having done so, he seems to think it gives him the 
right to control my whole existence. And one of his pet 
plans happens to be for me to marry my cousin, the only 
child of my mother’s sister. Her name’s Agatha Den- 
beigh, and she’s a perfectly detestable person, tall and 
willowy, with a long, patrician nose and a way of looking 
down it that always makes me long to pull it. I never 
could stand her even as a kid. But Uncle Dan’s made 
up his mind about our marrying. As a matter of fact 
I suppose I really ought to consider myself engaged to 
her now. It’s been an understood thing for years.” 

He lifted a rueful face to mine. He was lying stretched 
out full length under the shade of some trees on Box 
Hill, his elbows planted in the short grass, his chin 
cupped in his hands. 

“You see the difficulty?” he went on. “If I were to 
marry you instead of Agatha, there’d be the devil to pay. 
Uncle Dan ’ud promptly stop my allowance and cut me 
out of his will and—and what should we do then? A 
hundred a year wouldn’t be an atom of good to live on. 
And I’d have to give up my studies. Even if, by any 
chance, I managed to go on with them, it ’ud be another 
year to eighteen months before I began to earn anything 
—and then it ’ud probably be precious little to begin 
with. . . . And we’d be losing the old man’s money in the 
end! ... I don’t mind for myself. It’s you I’m thinking 
of. I’d love to be able to give you nice things, surround 
you with every luxury, make a queen of you!” 

I smiled, a careless, happy smile, and drew a piece of 
grass teasingly across his gloomy face. 


2 l8 


SPILLED WINE 


“You needn’t worry about me/’ I said. “I’m used to 
being—well, if not exactly hard up, at least limited where 
money’s concerned. Also I’ve never been accustomed to 
the sort of luxuries you mean, so I shouldn’t miss them. 
Money isn’t everything, you know—so long as we were 
together.” 

He moved nearer to me, resting both arms upon my 
knees as I sat tailor-wise before him. 

“Thanks!” he said. “You’re a dear to say that, and 
I know you mean it. But, darling, can’t you think how 
awful it would be for me to know I’d been the means 
of condemning you to poverty.” 

I stroked his head, my fingers lingering tenderly among 
its waves of sunny hair. 

“You forget,” I reminded him, “that I’m not quite 
penniless. I’ve got about two hundred pounds in the 
bank, and I may get quite a lot for my book. In any 
case I could always earn some sort of an income with 
my writing.” 

With a sudden burst of gratitude he buried his face 
in my lap, pressing kisses upon my hands and wrists, 
even upon my skirt. 

“What a brick you are!” he marvelled. “What a 
jolly, plucky little kid! And what a lucky devil I am! 
But we must find some other way. I couldn’t live on 
your earnings.” 

“It wouldn’t be for long,” I coaxed. 

“No good!” he protested. “I couldn’t think of such a 
thing—not even for a moment.” 

All through the long June afternoon we thrashed the 
matter out, scheming, planning, suggesting, looking at it 


SPILLED WINE 


219 

from every possible point of view. Finally I had an 
inspiration. 

“Wouldn’t it be possible to keep our marriage a secret, 
at any rate for the present, until you’d got through your 
exams.?” I said. “Why need your uncle know any¬ 
thing about it? Three hundred a year would be quite 
a lot. We could manage splendidly.” 

Instantly Terry’s expression changed from one of 
cloud to one of sunshine. His frown melted in a smile of 
pure delight. 

“You’ve got it!” he cried, sitting bolt upright on the 
grass, his voice quivering with suppressed excitement. 
“Why didn’t I think of such a simple thing before? . . . 
As a matter of fact something of the sort did occur to 
me—but I wasn’t sure—what you’d think of it—and 
whether three hundred really was enough. I’ve never 
found it go very far myself. But, of course, women are 
better at that sort of thing.” 

“We’ll make it enough,” I said, and nodded happily. 
“With you—and a tiny flat of our very own—I wouldn’t 
change places with any woman in the world.” 

Ten minutes later we were brought sharply up against 
a fresh problem. 

“What am I going to do about my rooms in Jermyn 
Street?” Terry suddenly asked me. “I can’t give them up 
because whenever Uncle Dan comes to London he looks 
me up there. If I left he’d smell a rat. And if I keep 
them on how can we afford a flat as well?” 

This, indeed, appeared to be an insuperable difficulty. 

“It seems to me,” I said at length, after several min¬ 
utes’ earnest consideration, “that there’s simply no other 


220 


SPILLED WINE 


way but just to go on living as we are now—seeing one 
another whenever we can.” 

The expression on Terry’s face was like that of Lucifer 
falling from heaven. 

“But, Ann darling!” he expostulated. “To be married 
to you—and only see you occasionally—like this—as if 
you weren’t my wife at all! How can you suggest such 
a thing?” 

“I know it—it’s rotten,” I admitted wistfully. “But 
what else can we do?” 

He stared fixedly away into space, his face robbed of 
all its former brightness. 

“We could stay at hotels—I suppose—now and then?” 

I shook my head. 

“That would come expensive—and it would make it 
much harder to keep our secret. At any moment we 
might run into some one who knew your uncle.” 

“Oh, damn!” he cried, and a look of fierce pugnacity 
settled over his boyish features. “Why does Fate put 
all these obstacles in our way? I call it beastly unfair. 
It isn’t playing the game. After all, we’re only asking 
the right to get married.” 

Again we fell into one of those sudden silences that 
by now had become characteristic of the discussion. 
This time it was Terry who broke it. 

“I’ve got an idea!” he announced abruptly. “It 
doesn’t altogether solve the problem but it might help. 
When my mother died she left me, in addition to the 
hundred a year, a small cottage at Elmstree where we 
lived for the first eight years of my life. I think I’ve 
told you about it? Well, my old nurse is still living 


SPILLED WINE 


22 1 


there. I generally run down and see her several times 
in the year. She’s very devoted to me. We could spend 
our honeymoon there—it’s the sweetest place you ever 
saw, I know you’d love it—and we could go down for 
week-ends now and then. Uncle Dan never goes near 
the place. Old Nanny ’ud keep our secret—and be de¬ 
lighted to have us. What do you think of the idea?” 

“Think of it? Why, I think it’s splendid, simply splen¬ 
did!” I cried, conscious of a sudden renewed rush of 
light-heartedness. “Nothing could be more delight¬ 
ful—or romantic. It will be like one long adventure. 
And we shan’t run the risk of getting tired of one another 
—of finding married life monotonous.” 

“Monotonous? Ann darling, how could you even sug¬ 
gest such a thing? How could we ever get tired of one 
another?” 

There was a note of shocked protest in his boyish 
voice. Putting out my hand I gently stroked his cheek. 
A sudden curious feeling of being years older than this 
handsome lover of mine, of being separated from him 
by aeons of worldly experience, came over me. 

“How young you are!” I said. “How deliciously 
young!” 

And so it was settled. 

On the first Wednesday in July Terry joyously in¬ 
formed me that we were to be married at the Westmin¬ 
ster Registry on the following Saturday. 

“Think of it!” he cried. “Only three more days! I’m 
almost crazy with excitement. I can hardly believe it’s 
really true.” 


222 


SPILLED WINE 


I nodded, blinking away an absurd inclination to cry. 

“It—it does seem—wonderful,” I said. 

That evening I took Alma, for the first time, completely 
into my confidence. Reversing our usual attitudes I knelt 
upon the floor beside her, clasping my arms about her 
waist as she sat in a big, easy chair drawn up by the open 
studio window. 

“I’m so happy,” I told her, “so happy I don’t know 
how to put it into words. It’s like standing on the 
threshold of Paradise! Like watching the door of Alad¬ 
din’s cave swing open before me! I never imagined such 
happiness could exist for any mortal being. ... To 
think, that in less than three days’ time I shall be Terry’s 
wife! His wife! That nothing will ever be able to take 
him away from me! Oh, Alma, I wonder if you can 
understand one little bit of all I’m trying to tell you.” 

As she looked down at me her face was in the shadow. 
I fancied her eyes were sad yet very tender, that her 
mouth trembled. 

“I think I do,” she said. “Yes, I think I understand. 
I’m glad you’re happy. I hope you will always be happy. 
It’s a great gamble—marriage—but if you are both sure 
that you love one another-” 

“Sure?” I laughed exultantly, nestling my cheek 
against her knee, “I am more sure of that than of any¬ 
thing else that has ever happened to me, as sure as— 

as- Oh, there’s nothing in all the world as certain as 

my love for Terry! Nothing else that matters!” 

And suddenly I began to sing a parody of an old 
French song I had heard in Paris. 




SPILLED WINE 


223 


“L*Amour qui vient & travers la montagne 
M’a rendu foul” 

Presently I raised my head and looked eagerly up into 
my friend’s eyes. 

“Wish me luck!” I whispered. “Say you wish me 
luck.” 

“But I do, with all my heart, of course I do,” she said. 

“Then why are you looking sad?” 

“Am I? P’raps it’s because I’m thinking how much 
I shall miss you.” 

“But I’m only going for a little while—a week, a fort¬ 
night, perhaps. It wouldn’t be safe to stay too long.” 

She shook her head slowly, and a look I could not 
decipher gathered in her deep brown eyes. 

“But you will never be quite the same Ann again,” she 
said gently, a subtle note of prescience in her quiet voice. 
“I feel as if you were really going—this time—as if I 
were really losing you.” 

An odd little shiver, like the fluttering of a bat’s wing, 
passed over me. What did she mean by this time? What 
other time had there been? 

Suddenly, as I knelt there in the pink flush of the 
setting sun, there came a fleeting vision of Gustave. I 
saw his smiling eyes, the sensuous curves of his red lips. 
. . . I felt the touch of his groping hands. . . . 

It was the first time I had thought of him for months, 
yet in a moment I found myself trembling violently, bat¬ 
tling with the cold horror of a recollection I had fondly 
imagined to be dead. With a swift movement I sprang 
to my feet, pushed the hair back from my forehead and 
leaned out over the window-sill. 


224 


SPILLED WINE 


“Fool! Fool! Fool!” I cried vehemently in the seeth¬ 
ing riot of my soul. “All that’s over and done with—for 
ever. You’re mad to remember! Mad! Pull 3/ourself 
together!” 

A moment later I heard myself saying quite calmly to 
Alma: 

“How can you be losing me, when I’m only going for 
such a little while? Haven’t I explained that I’m coming 
back here again—afterwards? That we can’t live openly 
together until Terry has passed his exams, and is earn¬ 
ing some money?” 

Again she shook her head. 

“You don’t understand what I mean,” she said. “Per¬ 
haps I don’t even understand myself.” 

She was silent. With my back still turned towards 
her I knew that she was watching me intently. Pres¬ 
ently she added: 

“I’m sorry you’ve got to keep your marriage a secret.” 

“So am I,” I agreed. “It’s a nuisance, of course, but 
it can’t be helped. And perhaps it won’t be for long— 
only until we can earn enough money to be independent.” 

Turning from the window I dropped again to my 

knees beside her. The momentary cloud had vanished. 

• 

Once more my thoughts were all of Terry, of the great 
happiness that was coming hourly nearer to me. 

“Of course it would be lovely, setting up a real home, 
being always together,” I said. “I shall hate only seeing 
him now and then. But, after all, what does anything 
matter, really—compared with the glorious fact that we 
are going to be married!” 

Still with her face in the shadow, with her dark head 
outlined against a flaming orange sky, Alma bent and 


SPILLED WINE 


225 


kissed me. It was a lingering, yearning, very gentle kiss, 
the sort of kiss a mother might have given a daughter 
under similar circumstances. 

As she raised her head again I felt a tear splash down 
upon my cheek. 


CHAPTER XVII 


W HEN we arrived at the Westminster Registry at 
eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, it was to 
discover that, owing to the omission of some trifling 
formality not very clear to either of us, the marriage 
would have to be postponed until the Monday. 

I have a distinct recollection of Terry’s bewildered 
expression as he stared blankly into the suave, pimply 
features of a smirking clerk. For a moment I had a wild 
idea that he was going to lean over the littered desk and 
strangle him. Then he said “Damnation!” very violently 
and explosively and proceeded to argue the matter. 

They argued for about ten minutes. Finally, in a 
state of mingled rage and disappointment, Terry took me 
by the arm and almost dragged me out again into the 
street. 

“Of all the unholy idiots, the blithering, crack-brained 
blighters . . . the . . . the . . . silly jackasses . . .! Oh hell 
and fury! What the devil are we to do now?” 

And snatching off his cap he raked a hand wildly 
through his hair and stood staring down at me in the 
middle of the sun-flooded pavement of Victoria Street 
with an expression that, despite my own intense disap¬ 
pointment, made me want to laugh. 

“I’m afraid we can’t do anything,” I said, “except make 
the best of it. After all, it’s only postponed until Mon¬ 
day.” 


226 


SPILLED WINE 


227 

“Only? Two whole days! Think of it? And in 
another ten minutes we might have been married! Mar¬ 
ried! And that putty-nosed jackass—that blithering 
fool-!” 

My sense of humour got the better of me and I 
laughed. 

“You dear old donkey,” I said. “It’s not his fault. 
It was your mistake really, you know. You ought to 
have read that paper more carefully. Anyway, talking 
about it won’t do any good—and we can’t stand here 
blocking up the pavement all the morning. Let’s go 
somewhere and try to forget about it. After all, two 
days aren’t so very long to wait.” 

He nodded vaguely, replaced his cap and gave his 
shoulders a sort of twitch. Then his gaze fell upon the 
little yellow runabout standing by the curb and a faint 
ray of sunshine broke through the gloom of his bronzed 
young features. 

“I s’pose you’re right,” he agreed. “Grousing won’t 
do any good. Come on, hop in, and we’ll go for a spin 
somewhere. After all, it’s only postponed—and it’s a 
glorious day. I dare say we’ll manage to get through the 
time somehow—and we’ll be together.” 

We were already passing through Hendon before it 
occurred to us to discuss where we should go to. 

“Why not let’s take a run down to the cottage and 
have a look at it, anyway?” Terry suggested. “You’d 
like to see what it’s like, wouldn’t you? And old Nan¬ 
ny’ll be expecting us. It’s only about an hour and a 
half’s run from here. We’d be there soon after one. We 
could spend the afternoon having a look round and be 
back again by eight or nine this evening.” 




228 


SPILLED WINE 


I agreed eagerly, conscious of a sudden rush of de¬ 
lighted anticipation. By going to Elmstree it did not 
seem somehow that the whole of the day’s programme 
would be so hopelessly spoilt. And I wanted so much to 
see that cottage—the cottage in which Terry had been 
born, in which our honeymoon was to be spent. 

It was a lovely day, at the very height of summer’s 
glory. Over night a slight rainfall had brought out the 
vivid tints of the hedges like a varnish. Trees and 
meadows, wayside flowers and planted crops were all in 
the full vigour of their growth. Never before had the 
country seemed so beautiful. 

Snuggled down in the well-padded seat of the car, one 
hand just brushing the rough tweed of Terry’s coat, my 
heart singing its little wordless song of joy, I lay steeped 
in a mood of inestimable happiness. With every golden, 
purring mile my sense of disappointment lessened. After 
all, we were together. That was the main thing. 

“Brill-Ray” was the wonderfullest cottage I had ever 
rustic loveliness existed in actual fact. I had always 
suspected them of thriving solely in the imaginations 
of landscape artists. It was absurdly small and it lay 
back from the road in a garden that, at first glance, 
appeared to be one blazing riot of flowers. It had a 
steep, uneven roof of thatch that jutted and curved over 
diamond-paned casement windows like a stiff, golden- 
brown frill, whilst its walls, with the exception of one 
single patch of creamy white, were entirely covered with 
such climbing plants as roses, honeysuckle, clematis and 
jasmine. 

As the car drew up before the low hawthorn hedge, 


SPILLED WINE 


229 


the door opened and a little, white-haired, rosy-cheeked 
old woman came out under the wooden porch, halted 
for a moment, shading her eyes with her hands, and then 
came hurrying towards us down the mossy, flag-stoned 
pathway. 

By the time she had reached the little wooden gate, 
Terry had climbed out of the car and lifted me bodily 
on to the side-walk. He almost swept the old woman 
off her feet as he stooped to kiss her rosy cheeks. Then, 
taking me by the hand, he pulled me impulsively forward 
and introduced us. 

“This,” he shouted into one of the obviously deaf ears 
of his old nurse, “is Ann! And this,” he informed me, 
“is Nanny.” 

Without hesitation the latter caught my two hands 
eagerly in her withered, bony ones, regarded me critically 
for a moment out of her peculiarly bright, bird-like eyes, 
then, nodding her little white head under its whiter cap, 
kissed me effusively. 

“Bless you, my dear! Bless you!” she croaked in a 
tremulous, high-pitched voice that somehow sounded to 
me like an absurd caricature of Terry’s. “And a dear 
bonny girl you are to be sure! But there, didn’t I know 
you would be? Wasn’t my boy always a one for a pretty 
face? Couldn’t I trust him to pick out a bride as ’ud be 
worthy of ’imself? But there, come along in. Come 
along in. You’ll be hungry after your long ride and 
everything’s ready and waiting—roast chicken with apple 
fritters to follow and some of Nanny’s special home¬ 
brewed cider—and the first lot o’ strawberries I’ve picked 
out of the garden. All the things my boy likes best. 


230 SPILLED WINE 

Trust old Nanny not to forget anything—and on such 

a day!” 

And she hustled us up the path between the serried 
rows of mignonette and sea-pinks and geraniums and 
wall-flowers and lupins and hollyhocks, like an old hen 
mothering a couple of stray chicks. 

In the square, oak-raftered, prettily furnished room 
into which we entered directly from the porch, she paused 
and surveyed us anew, her kindly, crumpled features lit¬ 
erally beaming with delight. 

“To think,” she exclaimed delightedly, “that I’ve lived 
to see this day—to see Master Terry bring his wife to 
the very cottage he was born in! Ah well! But I’m 
glad, indeed I am, glad to be here to welcome you both, 
to wish you all the happiness you deserve! Bless your 
dear hearts! Bless you!” And two odd little tears gath¬ 
ered suddenly in her bright blue eyes, brimmed over the 
trembling lids and trickled slowly down her pleated 
cheeks. 

“But we’re not married—yet!” I hastened to correct 
her. “Something went wrong with the arrangements 
and we’ve got to wait until Monday. We came down 
here because-” 

“And a bonny wife you’ll make him, I’m sure,” old 
Nanny went on, serenely unconscious of the meaning of 
my interruption. “I can see it in your eyes. There’s 
youth in them—and courage and love. What more can 
mortals want?” 

“But please,” I began again, “you’re making a mis¬ 
take. We aren’t-” 

“And now I must be seeing about your dinner,” she 
concluded briskly. “I wouldn’t have it burnt for the 




SPILLED WINE 


231 


world, not for the world. So beautiful it looked just now 
in the oven. But, of course, you’ll be wanting a wash 
first and to take off your things. If you’ll just come this 
way I’ll show you your room, the same as Terry used to 
sleep in when he was a little boy.” 

In a state of helpless perplexity, not untinged with 
amusement, I found myself following her up a flight of 
very narrow, very uneven stairs into the tiniest, quaintest 
bedroom it would be possible to imagine outside the pages 
of a child’s story book. In fact, as I stood by the Noah’s 
Ark window looking out on to the garden below, I was 
irresistibly reminded of the story of Goldilocks and the 
three bears. Even a little girl, I thought, would have no 
difficulty in climbing out of such a window. 

For a few moments Nanny pottered about pouring 
water into a basin, spreading a towel over the back of 
a chair and revealing the mysteries of a cupboard hidden 
in the wall, where I might hang my coat. Then, with 
a final warning that “dinner would be on the table in 
five minutes,” she vanished. 

The moment the door had closed behind her I turned 
with a gesture of comic dismay towards Terry, who had 
followed us and was now regarding me with a tenderly 
humorous smile across the little room. 

“She thinks we’re married!” I gasped. 

He nodded and, still smiling, seated himself leisurely 
upon the edge of the snowy bed. 

“Of course,” he replied. “I wrote to her on Wednes¬ 
day telling her we were to be married this morning. 
There wouldn’t have been time to let her know what 
had happened—even if I’d thought about it. But there, 
never mind! We’ll explain presently. What I want to 


232 


SPILLED WINE 


know is—what do you think of the cottage? Think we 
could be happy here—just you and I and Nanny—for a 
little while?”' 

He held out his arms to me. His eyes burned with the 
dancing amber flames that always seemed to be hiding 
just under the surface, ready to wake up at the first hint 
of passion. 

“Little Ann! Little wife! Little Kiddy mine!” he 
whispered. “Come here. I want to kiss you. I want to 
love you.” 

We had lunch in the parlour, a tiny, oblong room with 
oak rafters and faded walls and a red-tiled floor covered 
here and there with soft, indefinite coloured rugs. 
Through the open window, between curtains of bright 
chintz, came the scent of flowers from the garden beyond 
and sometimes a blundering, pollen-coated bee. 

Like a princess in a fairy-tale I sat and ate, dipping 
my strawberries into the thick cream that Nanny poured 
lavishly upon my plate. 

Every time I raised my head I met a smile in Terry’s 
eyes. 

We spent the afternoon exploring the garden and the 
orchard behind the cottage and the pine woods that 
crowned the ridge of a neighbouring hill. The world 
went by like a laughing brook, like a song in the throat 
of a bird, like the drifting perfume of a flower. At times 
I wondered if it could all be true, if I should not pres¬ 
ently wake up and find I had been dreaming. 

At five o’clock we went back to the cottage and for 
tea there were scones and home-made cakes and honey 
and jam and golden butter in pats—and old Nanny wait¬ 
ing like an adoring slave to welcome us. 


SPILLED WINE 


233 


One by one the golden hours were slipping rapidly 
away. Very soon we should be speeding back again to 
London—back to the noise and jar and ugliness of town— 
leaving behind us the peaceful country-side dreaming in 
the gentle arms of a sylvan twilight. And still we had 
not explained the true facts of the situation to Nanny. 

After tea Terry suggested another walk. 

“We’ve got just two hours before we need start/’ he 
said. “We’ll go across High Marsh to the Coppice—a 
little to the left of where we went this afternoon. There’s 
a gate at the top where we can sit and get a splendid 
view. It used to be one of my favourite spots.” 

We found the gate, climbed upon it and sat silently 
holding hands and gazing at the soothing loveliness of the 
typical English country-side. 

Behind us stretched a belt of firs, obviously the boun¬ 
dary-line of some big estate, before us the gently curving 
breasts of little hills, the dents and cups of valleys, the 
gleaming, broken thread of a river, the bleached ribbon 
of a winding, climbing road. Somewhere in the distance 
a dog barked, a cow called softly to its calf. From the 
direction of the orchard came the steady creaking of a 
bucket being winched up out of a well. All about us 
throbbed the potent magic of a summer’s afternoon. 

The sun was dipping westward upon our extreme right, 
casting the shadows of the fir trees in long tapering cones 
across the vivid, gold-studded grass at our feet. A sort 
of holy hush, a breathless, ineffable rapture enfolded me. 
The world of everyday reality seemed immeasurably far 
away, fantastically unreal. 

With a long fluttering sigh I took off my hat and 
leaned my head against Terry’s shoulder. 


234 


SPILLED WINE 


“How lovely it all is!” I marvelled. “How like a fairy¬ 
tale! It seems a shame to have to go back and spoil 
it all.” 

“I was thinking the same,” he said. “I was think- 

• 55 

mg- 

He broke off suddenly. I felt his fingers grip mine 
with a little spasmodic movement. I had a feeling that 
his whole body stiffened, grew tense. 

“Ann,” he went on quickly, “why need we go? We 
don’t have to. There’s no real reason why we should. 
It wouldn’t matter—to anyone—if we stayed. We could 
be married as soon as we got back. After all it’s only 
an accident that we aren’t married!” 

As he spoke a rush of stifled emotion swept over me. 
I felt myself tremble violently. My blood seemed first 
to burn and then to run icy cold in my veins. 

“Terry!” I cried, a note of pleading, of desperation in 
my voice. “Don’t, oh please, please don’t!” 

In a flash his arms were about me, his eyes searching 
my face in an agony of contrition. 

“Dearest, oh my little dear!” he begged. “I’m sorry 
—if I’ve said what I oughtn’t to have done! But some¬ 
how—I couldn’t seem to help it. It came so natural. 
What could there be really wrong in it? Aren’t we al¬ 
ready married in spirit? What difference could a few 
formal words—and signing a register—make? Isn’t our 
love something more vital than just—that?” 

The look of anxiety in his eyes pleaded with me like 
the cry of a hurt child pleading to its mother. 

“It isn’t—exactly—that I think it would be wrong,” 
I stammered helplessly. “It’s just—that I feel we 



SPILLED WINE 


235 


oughtn’t to. The gods have been good to us—so very 
good. It would be like tempting them.” 

“But why? Why should they begrudge us our happi¬ 
ness? We’re only young once. Every hour we lose is 
lost for ever. It will never come back again.” 

“I know. Oh I know, I know!” 

“And I love you so! Oh, my darling, I love you so!” 

With a little cry I hid my face on his breast, unable 
any longer to meet the look in his eyes. But I did not 
speak and presently he went on. 

“Is that your only reason—the one you’ve just told 
me?” 

“Y—es. Yes I think it is.” 

“It isn’t—that you don’t trust me?” 

“No! Oh no, no!” 

“Then aren’t you throwing away a definite chance of 
happiness for an indefinite superstition?” 

“Perhaps—yes perhaps.” 

A pause, then: 

“Don’t you want me to love you—as I could—if we 
didn’t go back to London to-night?” 

A strangled sob rose in my throat. My hands gripped 
desperately at his coat sleeve. 

“Terry, why are you being so cruel to me?” I almost 
moaned. “Why do you tempt me?” 

“Because I love you,” he answered. “Because I want 
you—so much that I can’t be patient—and because I’m 
haunted with a fear that, even now, something may snatch 
you away from me. Listen, darling! I’d hate to ask you 
to do anything you thought was really wrong, but how 
could this be? It’s only an accident, a stupid blunder, 
that you’re not my wife—in law as well as in intention. 


SPILLED WINE 


236 

Old Nanny thinks we are! . . . We could stay until Mon¬ 
day—-and then go back and be married in the ordinary 
way. No harm would be done. No one would be any the 

wiser and—and-Oh, my darling, think! We needn’t 

go back to-night!” 

“But—” 

“Well?” 

“I—don’t know.” 

“You’re not afraid?” 

“No.” 

“You’re sure you do trust me?” 

“Yes, yes, of course. How can you ask such a thing?” 

“Then what is there against it?” 

“N—nothing, I suppose. Nothing really.” 

“Then, darling—will you?” 

For a moment longer I hesitated. Lifting my head 
from Terry’s breast I let my gaze travel vaguely out 
into the golden distances of the smiling landscape. As 
I did so a shadow seemed to fall across my vision, a 
chilly instinct of foreboding touched my heart. It was 
as though a voice were saying in my ear, “You are mad 
to listen! Mad! Mad! Mad! ... If you do this 
thing you will live to regret it!” 

Then the voice died away, the shadow vanished, and 
turning my head I looked deep into my lover’s eyes. 

“If you really want me to—I will,” I said. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


W E did not go back to London on the Monday. 

Golden day slipped into golden day and we 
stayed. A spell of enchantment enfolded us; a spell that 
we were afraid to disturb lest it should vanish for ever. 
In our secret hearts I think we both realized that we were 
treading the paths of an idyl that would never again be 
repeated in its entirety; that the golden lamp of romance 
would never again burn quite so brightly. It was as 
though we walked on tiptoe in the presence of a sleeping 
child whose waking would shatter all our dream; as 
though we wandered in a garden whose magic walls shut 
out the brutal intrusions of a world we wanted to forget. 

The fault, if fault there was, lay entirely with me. 
Just as I had been reluctant to stay, now I was reluctant 
to go. It was as though some vague shadow of fore¬ 
boding crouched beyond the gate of my Eden; as though 
I knew quite well—without knowing why I knew—that 
such happiness could not last for ever; as though some 
instinct, deeper than reason, prompted me to make the 
most of it while it remained. 

“One day things may be different, the glamour may 
fade, the roses smell less sweet.” A voice seemed to 
whisper in my ear. “Hold tight to the moment while it 
is yours! Don’t risk one single blur on the mirror— 
until you must. Drink deep! Who knows how soon the 
perfect wine may fail you?” 

I cannot explain why such a feeling should have come 

237 


SPILLED WINE 


238 

to me. It was not that I doubted my lover’s loyalty— 
nor yet my own. It is simply inexplicable as all my ac¬ 
tions in connection with Terry are inexplicable. It 

• 

seemed to be born of the deeper wisdom of a subcon¬ 
scious Self that stood aside and watched the progress of 
my love with sober, prescient eyes. It is, at any rate, 
the only reason I can offer for the folly of my behaviour 
in continually postponing our return to London and the 
consequent legalizing of our union. 

As day slid into day we gave no thought to the future, 
no memory to the past. We lived solely in the present. 
We were never at a loss for occupation. One by one 
Terry initiated me into all his favourite pastimes. He 
taught me to swim, to fish, to shoot, to swing a golf-club. 
Best of all he taught me to ride. From Tenbridge I 
managed to procure myself a riding habit and from the 
village of Elmstree we hired two horses. Thereafter we 
went for long canters each morning before breakfast. 

I learnt to ride very quickly. Even Terry, I think, 
was surprised at my progress. Within a week or so I 
had developed into quite a passable horsewoman. To 
this moment I can recall the exhilarating delight of 
those happy hours in the saddle. The sun would not 
yet be fully up; the dew would still be sparkling on the 
grass; the lark still soaring in a sky of primrose hue, 
the whole landscape drowsing in the scintillating glory 
of a new-born day. Sometimes we would gallop madly, 
meeting the freshness of the morning breeze with bared 
heads and eager faces. Sometimes we would wander 
slowly, our hearts too full for speech, our joy too deep to 
find expression in the violence of physical action. 

In course of time I began to feel quite at home in the 


SPILLED WINE 


239 

neighbourhood, to acquire a certain amount of intimate 
knowledge concerning it. Terry would point with his 
crop to this farm or that, to a country mansion, a stretch 
of park-land, a wood, a meadow, and tell me to whom 
each belonged. 

“Of course, Adrian Carstairs is the biggest landowner 
in the district,” he said one day as we were passing the 
dragon-guarded gates of Selbourn Hall. “I believe he 
owns about twelve thousand acres altogether. The cop¬ 
pice at the top of High Marsh is one of the boundaries 
of the estate. The Hall itself 7 s rather a jolly sort of 
place—built by an Italian architect in the sixteenth cen¬ 
tury, after the style of a Roman villa. It’s not very 
big, but my father always used to say it was one of the 
show places of the country. I met Carstairs once or 
twice when I was a kid. He’d be about—oh about thirty- 
two now I should think. Rather a decent sort of chap. 
Wonder we haven’t run into him. But, come to think 
of it, he’s probably abroad. He’s a great traveller, I 
believe.” 

And he went on to recount various bits of gossip con¬ 
cerning the owner of the Selbourn estate. 

Everything connected with the district interested me 
immensely. Already I looked upon myself as the right¬ 
ful mistress of “Brill-Ray.” I began to picture myself 
writing books in the inspiring atmosphere of its peaceful 
seclusion. I began to dream of my children being born 
there. ... It was difficult, at times, to remember that 
I was not yet Terry’s lawful wife. 

July passed into August and summer shook out the 
last folds of her florescent splendour. Plums and apples 
ripened in the orchard; corn yellowed in the valleys; 


240 


SPILLED WINE 


the humming “purr” of machinery mingled with the rustic 
voices of the reapers in the hay fields. All nature seemed 
to spend herself in one mad, bacchanal dance of reckless 
plenitude. 

And still, ignoring the earnest promptings of common 
sense, we lingered on, the voice of the outer world grow¬ 
ing each day fainter in our ears. It was as though we 
lived in some tiny universe of our own creation, a happy 
valley of supreme contentment into which no breath of 
discord could ever enter. 

Sometimes when I looked at Terry, when I saw him 
come towards me under the fitful shadows of the apple 
trees, when I saw him leap a five-barred gate with care¬ 
less ease, or plunge naked into the bathing pool behind 
the willows, a queer choking feeling would come into 
my throat. He was my god and I worshipped him, 
frankly, unashamedly. Every curve of his beautiful 
young body inspired me with a passion of rapturous 
delight. There were times when I longed to be an artist, 
a sculptor, that I might give their wonder to the world. 
It seemed presumptuous to suppose that so much love¬ 
liness had been created solely for my enjoyment. . . . 

And there were times when sheer love of him made me 
fearful. He was so daring, so gloriously reckless. He 
would set his horse at the most difficult jump without a 
moment’s hesitation. And watching him my very soul 
would grow sick with dread—with terror at the bare 
possibility that some harm might befall him. There were 
moments when I longed to hold him back as a mother 
longs to shield a loved child from danger. 

One morning I woke unusually early. 


SPILLED WINE 


241 


For several minutes I lay quite still, listening to the 
regular breathing of the sleeping boy beside me; then, 
very gently, I got out of bed and went to sit by the 
window, leaning with my elbows upon the narrow sill. 

Almost directly in front of me the sun was rising, send¬ 
ing up great spokes of fire into the opalescent sky. High 
overhead hung a shimmering canopy of rosy light, a trans¬ 
parent cloud of palest anemone pink that melted west¬ 
ward into a lake of ethereal peridot green. 

Scarcely a sound disturbed the stillness. For a while 
it seemed to my entranced and still drowsy senses that 
a muted hush hung like a benediction over the scene. 

Gradually the gold deepened, the pink became orange 
and then melted into a sudden pearly haze as the top¬ 
most rim of the sun thrust upwards over the brow of the 
little hill opposite. At the same moment a lark rose whir¬ 
ring out of the dewy grass of the meadow to flood the 
world with the rapturous enchantment of its song. 

I drew in a deep breath of delight. 

“If I could paint that picture I would call it The 
Promise,’ ” I whispered ecstatically to myself. “It seems 
to be offering something—spreading out its hands full of 
gifts! . . . It’s so lovely, it hurts!” 

And suddenly, impelled by an emotion that I cannot 
explain, I fell upon my knees before the open window and 
began to pray. It wasn’t an orthodox prayer. It was 
just a great, formless cry of thankfulness, the outpourings 
of an almost intolerable burden of joy, the irresistible 
overflow of a full heart. It was one of the very few 
honest spontaneous prayers I ever remember offering. 

That day which began by the open window in the 
golden moment of sunrise was to prove one of the most 


242 


SPILLED WINE 


memorable of my life. As the hours sped by our mutual 
happiness seemed to reach its highest heights and deepest 
depths. The mere touch of a hand, tHe glance of an eye, 
the faintest whispered caress, became magnified into a 
thing of palpitating joy. We trod a plain of emotional 
exaltation seldom reached by mortal lovers. 

It was an unusually hot day. Waves of heat swam 
visibly in the still air. Cattle and sheep alike lay drowsily 
ruminating in every available patch of shade. Scarcely 
a sound of human activity mingled with the ceaseless 
droning of the bees. The very flowers in the ditches had 
a listless, drooping appearance. 

Providing ourselves with a book of poems and some 
apples from the orchard, we went up into the woods and 
prepared to while away the afternoon on beds of spongy 
moss and scented pine-needles. 

At first we talked, idly, intimately, then, resting his 
chin in his hands and his elbows upon his knees, Terry 
began to read to me. In imagination I can hear his voice 
now as, coloured with the faint Irish accent that always 
seemed to deepen in moments of peculiar emotion, he 
slowly repeated the familiar lines of the long dead 
Persian. 

“ ‘A book of verses underneath the bough, 

A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou 
Singing by me in the wilderness, 

The wilderness were paradise enow’.” 

“Terry!” I suddenly exclaimed, sitting stiffly upright 
on my scented couch. “Terry—don’t! Don’t read any 
more! I’m afraid!” 

“Afraid?” With an effect of startled inquiry he raised 


SPILLED WINE 243 

his head and turned to look at me. “Afraid of what, my 
darling?” 

“Afraid that we’re being too happy—that something’s 
bound to spoil it all sooner or later.” I went on agitated¬ 
ly. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that any two 
mortals should be as happy as we are. It doesn’t seem 
natural. Human life—earth life—isn’t a bit like this. 
Fate is cruel and careless and blind—and sometimes I 
think she’s jealous. She lets us play at happiness, but it 
doesn’t last. It’s like a cat letting a mouse play at se¬ 
curity. At any moment her paw may come down on us 
and then—then ” 

He laughed, a short, careless laugh, tipping back his 
head so that I saw the mirth bubbling in his full brown 
throat like water in a spring. 

“You dear, foolish little Kiddy!” he said. “I shouldn’t 
worry about such fancies if I were you.” 

“No?” I mused. “But then you see you’re not a 
woman.” 

“Meaning, I suppose, that I have none of that illusive 
feminine quality—intuition, eh? That my mere mascu¬ 
line fibres are too dull and coarse to respond to the deli¬ 
cate vibrations of premonition? Is that it?” 

I stroked his head, rumpling his hair with loving, 
tender fingers. Somehow I could not bring myself to 
respond to his mood of light raillery. 

“I wish you wouldn’t joke,” I said quietly. “I’m really 
serious. It may seem like a piece of foolish superstition 
to you, but—but—well, it doesn’t to me. A sort of eerie 
feeling came over me just now—when you were reading. 
I wish we hadn’t chosen Omar.” 

“Oh, Omar’s all right. Splendid fellow! No tom- 



244 


SPILLED WINE 


foolery about him. He understood life and believed in 
getting the most out of it. ‘Eat, drink and be merry’ 
sort of thing-” 

“Yes, he lived for the moment, because he knew that 
it couldn’t last.” 

“And you think our moment won’t either?” 

“Well—do you? Do you honestly think it possible 
that we could go on being as happy as this—for ever?” 

He raised himself slowly from his crouched position, 
absently brushing the pine needles from his coat sleeve as 
he regarded me. Then: 

“I don’t know. I’m sure I jolly well hope so,” he 
said. “I suppose we’ll have our ups and downs like other 
people—if that’s what you mean—but we’ll always have 
each other—and love!” 

“Oh, but shall we? Terry, shall we?” 

And suddenly, for no comprehensible reason, I threw 
myself wildly against his breast, a flood of crazy terror 
in my heart, tears of hysterical emotion streaming un¬ 
heeded down my cheeks. 

“I—I know I’m a fool,” I sobbed, “but if you only 
knew how I dread—anything happening. If you stopped 
loving me I—I think I should k—kill myself. I can’t 
imagine living without you. And life is so uncertain. 
You’ve said so yourself.” 

“But that was ages ago before you belonged to me,” 
he answered, and taking me bodily into his arms he wiped 
away my tears, kissing my quivering mouth and burning 
eyelids, holding my wet cheek close to his own. “Now 
you’re my own little sweetheart and I shall love you for 
ever—so please don’t think any more foolish thoughts. 
Promise me you won’t!” 



SPILLED WINE 


245 

Gradually the storm abated, the calm of untroubled 
happiness crept back into my heart. But we read no 
more of Omar Khayyam. Instead we took the little 
leather-covered volume and hid it in a rabbit’s hole, 
filling the mouth with bits of turf and last year’s leaves. 

About six o’clock in the evening the air grew much 
cooler. A pleasant breeze sprang up stirring the flowers 
in the garden, waving the tall spikes of the lupins, lifting 
the heavy heads of the roses, setting the Canterbury bells 
swinging and the sunflowers nodding. As we had missed 
our ride in the morning, Terry proposed that we should 
take it now. And so, a little before seven, we set out 
on a swift trot across the undulating hills to the west. 

For some time we rode in silence, the cool air blowing 
pleasantly in our faces, the feet of our horses clattering 
rhythmically along the hard road. Then, flushed and 
happy, we drew rein on the brow of a hill and prepared 
to watch the sunset. 

Just as the day had opened with more than usual 
beauty, so now it died in a blaze of celestial glory. Gold 
and crimson, amethyst, and flaming orange ran in a mad 
riot across the heavens. One could imagine vast coffers 
of jewels and precious metals being flung into a brazier 
and their molten fusion splashed across the sky. 

As I looked, once more an odd ferment of emotion 
sprang up in me, a feeling of awed reverence, of breath¬ 
lessness, almost of panic. Once more I wanted to pray, 
to cry aloud in the sudden poignance of my troubled 
spirit. Something seemed to catch at my throat, to 
squeeze my heart like a great claw. 

“Terry! ” I gasped. “Oh, Terry, I—I-” 



SPILLED WINE 


246 

And then I paused, overwhelmed with shame at this 
second loss of my self-control. 

At the first sound of my voice Terry had swung to¬ 
wards me, his face bright with the reflected glory of the . 
sky, his eyes dazzled with the sun. 

“Yes, darling? What is it?” he queried. 

But even had I wanted to I could not possibly have 
explained the feeling that had so suddenly come over 
me. So I answered vaguely. 

“Nothing, nothing! Let’s go back!” 

We wheeled our horses to the east so that the glory of 
the sunset was now behind us. 

“I tell you what,” said Terry. “I’ll race you home! 
Come on. A good gallop’ll do us good. One!—Two!— 
Three!—Go!” And digging his heels into his horse’s 
flanks he was off down the hill like a flash. 

As I followed him the glory of the sunset seemed sud¬ 
denly to be blotted out. The shadow of the hill closed 
over me. In spite of the violent pumping of blood in 
my veins, a chill fell upon my heart like a breath of ice. 
Faster and faster I urged my willing mare, but ever the 
distance between myself and the flying figure in front 
grew greater. Finally, round a wooded bend at the bot¬ 
tom of the hill, it vanished completely from my sight. 

Within a mile and a half of “Brill-Ray” was a bridle¬ 
path leading obliquely across an outlying piece of the 
Selbourn estate. It was not strictly a right-of-way, but 
Terry and I had used it continually in our rides and, as 
it shortened the distance by about three-quarters of a 
mile, I concluded that he had gone that way now and 
prepared to follow. 

As I turned aside out of the high road into the sunken 


SPILLED WINE 


247 


path that dipped down between high banks under thickly 
spreading beeches, my feeling of vague uneasiness crys¬ 
tallized into a sudden paralysing consciousness of ca¬ 
lamity. 

“Terry! Terry!” I cried aloud and thrashed unmerci¬ 
fully at the foam-flecked shoulders of my sweating 
mount. 

At the end of the bridle-path was a low, broken-down 
gate which Terry had taught me to jump, and as I ap¬ 
proached it, leaning low to escape the overhanging 
branches, I felt my mare gather herself for the spring. 

In the same moment that her feet landed with a ring¬ 
ing clatter upon the further side, I saw the figure of 
Terry lying queerly huddled in the roadway. I saw a 
red pool staining the white dust. . . . 

Instantly, as though through the medium of a sixth 
sense, I knew what had happened. Long before I had 
sprung down from the saddle, before my darling’s head 
lay limp and unresponsive in my arms, something—the 
same instinct, maybe, that several times already that day 
had filled me with an indescribable consciousness of fate 
—had told me that he was dead. 


CHAPTER XIX 


T ERRY was dead! 

It sounds crude, brutal, put into words, but 
that is just exactly how it happened. Ten minutes be¬ 
fore he had been alive and happy, tingling with the vital 
essence of life. And now he was dead! . . . Dead! 

It was as though a stone had dropped into the crystal 
cup of my life, shattering it to a million pieces, destroy¬ 
ing it beyond the wildest hope of repair. As I knelt there 
in the blood-stained dust of the roadway, the flush of 
sunset still spread like a rosy scarf across the western 
sky, something within myself died also. The Ann that 
survived was an Ann stripped bare of all the flowers that 
joy had planted. 

The period that immediately followed is so blurred in 
my memory that I find it difficult to write about with any 
impression of reality. I felt dazed, bewildered, stunned. 
In a flash the whole world seemed to have become peopled 
with devils, grinning, mocking devils. Life had been 
translated into terms of ghastly nightmare. A frozen 
horror built itself about my heart. The sun went out; 
the stars dropped into blackness. Like a stricken man 
I groped in the twilight of despair, conscious of one emo¬ 
tion and one only—that of a ceaseless, burning pain that 
gnawed the fibres of my ego like a hungry rat. 

If only I could have been really ill! If only some tithe 
of my excruciating misery could have been buried in the 
merciful oblivion of fever! But I was not ill. I was 

248 


SPILLED WINE 


249 

merely wounded to a state of pitiful wretchedness. My 
soul lay crushed and bleeding in the tracks of Juggernaut, 
leaving my brain to suffer all the tortures of the damned. 

I have an impression of my shattered Eden being sud¬ 
denly invaded by strangers—stern-faced, disapproving 
strangers who looked at me with a mingling of contempt 
and curiosity. There was a thin, hatchet-faced man, 
with cold eyes and a cruel mouth, whom I understood to 
be Daniel Casterbridge, a tall, fair-haired, fashionably 
dressed woman who moved about the little cottage with 
an air of supercilious disdain, a plump middle-aged ma¬ 
tron with a loud voice and fretful manners, and a young 
man with a fair moustache and bashful eyes. They all 
regarded me with the haughty aloofness of superior 
mortals in the defiling presence of an abandoned sinner, 
all except the young man in whose face I caught the 
softened look of pity. 

At first they tried to separate me from the dead body 
of my darling, but the fierceness of my resistance fright¬ 
ened them and they left me alone—alone with my burden 
of passionate despair. Calm and graceful, like a sleeping 
god, he lay upon the bed that had been our marriage bed, 
beneath the sloping roof that had sheltered so much joy. 
He seemed more splendid, more youthful even, than in 
life. 

For three days I kept vigil. Then they took him away 
from me and buried him in the little cemetery on the hill, 
less than a mile from the spot in the wood where we had 
sat together that last tragic afternoon—where we had 
buried the verses of Omar in the mouth of a rabbit hole. 

When they had gone, when I had watched the coffin 
carried out through the open sunlit doorway, a great 


250 


SPILLED WINE 


shiver seemed to pass over me. It was as though a veil 
had been suddenly wrenched from my eyes. For the 
first time I looked into the face of the Future. 

“It’s all over!” I told myself desperately. “Terry’s 
dead! Dead! ... I must go away! ... I must 
hide! ... I must find a spot in the world where nobody 
knows—where I can bury my secret for ever!” 

Like a wounded beast I stumbled back to the bedroom. 
In the doorway I became aware of a sudden faintness and 
threw out my arms for support. The next moment I 
had fallen forward in a deep swoon across the threshold. 

When next I regained consciousness it was to find my¬ 
self in bed, with Nanny seated in a chair beside me and 
the late afternoon sun streaming obliquely in at the win¬ 
dow. 

For a while I lay quite still, thinking, puzzling out 
exactly what had happened, wondering how much time 
had elapsed since I fainted. Presently, almost uncon¬ 
sciously, a heavy sigh escaped my lips. At the same 
moment, as though sensing the fact of my wakefulness, 
Nanny turned her head and met my questioning gaze. 

At once she got up, and putting aside the needlework 
she had been doing, leaned tenderly above me. 

“Poor wee lamb!” she murmured, and passed a trem¬ 
bling hand over my hair. “Nanny’s here. Nanny’s tak¬ 
ing care of you. There’s nothing to worry about.” 

For a moment I could not speak. My lips seemed 
unable to form any words. Then, with a determined ef¬ 
fort, I managed to raise my voice sufficiently to pierce 
her deafness. 


SPILLED WINE 


251 

“Tell me,” I said, “what has happened? How long 
have I been in bed?” 

“Two days, poor bairn,” she answered. “You’ve been 
having a nice long sleep. The doctor said it was the best 
thing that could have happened.” 

“The doctor? Then I’ve been ill?” 

“Yes and no. You would have been—if you hadn’t 
broken down when you did. You were worn out, body 
and spirit. You hadn’t slept for three nights. But now, 
please God, you’ll soon be well again.” 

I sighed anew. 

“Shall I?” I queried listlessly. “Does one ever get 
well again—when one has lost everything in life worth 
living for?” 

With a swift gesture her arms were about my shoul¬ 
ders, her wrinkled cheek pressed close to mine. 

“You mustn’t say that,” she begged. “The Lord giv- 
eth, and the Lord taketh away! You’re still young. It’s 
difficult for you to believe now that you’ll ever be happy 
again, but time will heal your sorrow and bring you 
peace—if you’ll only have patience. God is good. He 
never deserts His children.” 

I smiled wearily, sceptically. 

“You may think that,” I said. “You believe in God— 
a personal God who cares what happens to us—but I, 
I’m not sure that I do. I don’t think I do! ... I only 
prayed—really prayed—once in my life. ... It was the 
morning Terry died. ... I thanked God for giving him 
to me. . . . And in a few hours He killed him!” 

With her wistful, child-like eyes fixed full on mine, 
Nanny shook her head. 

“You mustn’t blame that to God!” she protested. 


252 


SPILLED WINE 


“Perhaps He had a very good reason for taking our 
darling away from us.” 

Sitting back in her chair, she took one of my hands 
as it lay outside the coverlet and began to stroke it 
gently with her bony, work-worn fingers. 

“We don’t always understand the ways of Providence,” 
she went on pleadingly. “But in the end we shall know 
that it was all for the best. Oh I’m sure of that, I’m 
sure.” 

I shook my head slowly from side to side on the pillow, 
but I did not answer, and for a while silence fell be¬ 
tween us. 

Presently I began again. 

“I—I’m sorry—to have caused you all this trouble. 
I had meant to go away—at once—after the funeral. I 
was coming up here to pack my things when I fainted.” 

The bony fingers ceased their stroking and fastened 
tightly about my wrist. 

“You were going away? You were going to leave your 
old Nanny—like that?” she cried incredulously. 

“I thought it was the only thing to do—after what 
had happened—now that you know.” 

“Know what?” 

“That I wasn’t—really married to Terry.” 

“Fiddlesticks! What do I care whether you was mar¬ 
ried or not?” she burst out suddenly with a vehemence 
that startled me. “You were his wife in the eyes of God, 
that I know, and I defy anyone to prove otherwise. And 
if you weren’t I wouldn’t care. He loved you! My 
precious baby, my darling, loved you and that’s enough 
for old Nanny. Not all the person’ pratings in the world 
wouldn’t make no difference to that—let ’em say what 


SPILLED WINE 


253 

they like!” And the look of sturdy defiance in her misty 
old eyes brought a sudden film to my own. 

“It’s very kind of you,” I faltered, “but perhaps, all 
the same, the world’s right and we were wrong. We 
broke the law—we didn’t mean to, but we did—and now 
I’ve got to pay.” 

Very gently her hand smoothed imaginary creases from 
my pillow. 

“Poor dear,” she crooned compassionately. “Don’t be 
too hard on yourself. The good God’ll understand. He’ll 
know you only did it for love—and love sins are never 
bad sins. It breaks my heart to see you looking so sad. 
Won’t you let your poor old Nanny comfort you? Re¬ 
member I loved Terry too—better than anything else in 
all the world—and—and if you go away I’ll be very 
lonely.” 

A sob rose in my throat. I felt myself tremble with 
sudden emotion. 

“But don’t you see—I must go!” I insisted. “The 
angel with the flaming sword has put me out. I’ve got 
to go and make a new life—somehow.” 

“And leave your old Nanny all alone?” 

“My staying wouldn’t do you any good. People might 
get to know—about our not being married—and make it 
unpleasant for you.” 

A look of challenge flashed into the faded eyes. 

“Let ’em!” she cried. “What do I care? . . . But 
how can they? There’s no one to talk, no one to say 
anything. This cottage is mine. Terry always said 
he’d left it to me in his will—and fifty pounds a year 
beside. I can do as I like with it and—and I want you 
to stay—as long as ever you feel a mind to. Will you?” 


2 54 


SPILLED WINE 


I turned my head away from her, looking out of the 
window at the green distances of meadow and pinewood. 
The sun still shone but for me it held no warmth, no 
brightness. It might have been a scene of bleak Decem¬ 
ber for all the effect it had upon me. 

Presently, without altering my position, without lifting 
my voice from the blank note of inertia, I said: 

“Do you really want me to stay? I mean—just for a 
little while—until—I feel—I can face things again? 
You’re sure you won’t ever regret—asking me?” 

And then, somehow, her arms were about me and I 
found myself weeping my first wild tears against her 
shoulder. 

I stayed on at “Brill-Ray” until the end of October, 
and in the course of those two months I suffered immeas¬ 
urable depths of anguish, of dull, heart-sickening despair. 
Each night sleep came to me reluctantly, heavy with 
dreams of my darling; each morning I woke to a fresh 
burden of bitter, leaden hours. 

Once, during the early days, I contemplated suicide. 
I took Terry’s gun up into the wood and filling it with 
cartridges sat down on the bed of pine needles where we 
had last sat together, laid it across my knees and looked 
death squarely in the face. 

“If I put the butt down between my feet, rest my chin 
on the barrels and pull the trigger—both triggers at once 
—it will all be over in a moment,” I reasoned calmly with 
myself. “There will be no more wakings-up, no more long 
hateful days, no more heart-hunger and despair. I should 
have settled all the problems of life—this earth-life in 
which there seems to be no plan, no logic, nothing but 
blind fickleness and wanton pain! ... It would be 


SPILLED WINE 


255 

so easy. I don’t suppose it would even hurt. It would 
all be over so quickly! . . . And no one would really 
care ... no one. . . .” 

I paused. For the first time I remembered Alma—and 
Martin. They would care. If I killed myself they would 
suffer, not as I was suffering now—I could not conceive 
an equal pain in all the world—but something akin to it. 

“They love me,” I told myself. “They would be 
sorry if I died. And old Nanny—the shock, coming on 
top of Terry’s death, might kill her. I’m all she has left 
now.” 

Very slowly, reluctantly, I laid the gun down upon the 
ground beside me. 

“No,” I announced abruptly to the mellow stillness of 
the listening pines. “I can’t do it. . . . I can’t.” 

I began to think over all I had ever read about “time 
being the great healer” and of how, eventually, people 
grew resigned even to such disasters as had befallen me. 

“I suppose gradually, as the years go by, I shall suffer 
less,” I reasoned gravely with myself. “It seems impos¬ 
sible to imagine that I shall ever be happy again, but 
common sense tells me that I cannot go on like this for 
ever. Other interests will come to fill this great blank in 
my life. A hundred little things will creep in unawares 
and claim attention. The deepest wounds heal eventu¬ 
ally—if they don’t kill. ... If only I could find some 
way of occupying myself, some drug to soothe the nerves 
of memory! If only, for instance, I could work again!” 

Little by little my thoughts began to circle about the 
neglected fact of my writing. I remembered the book 
that was to be published this autumn. I tried to stimu¬ 
late myself to some sort of interest in its possible fate— 


SPILLED WINE 


256 

only to discover that my enthusiasm had entirely evapor¬ 
ated, that I had a difficulty even in remembering what 
it was all about. I was weary mentally, physically, spirit¬ 
ually. I felt as though something vital within me had 
been burnt up—utterly consumed. I felt like a tree 
over which has swept the devastating horror of a forest 
fire. My very soul seemed charred to lifeless ashes— 
frozen to a bleak insensibility. I looked out over the 
world about me as over the blackened ruins of a fearful 
desolation. 

Psychologists have demonstrated conclusively that no 
emotion is eternal. Some have attempted to prove that 
the fiercer the pain the sooner it wears itself out on the 
same principle that a blazing fire consumes itself more 
quickly than one that merely smoulders. 

I was not exempt from the eternal laws of nature. As 
time went on the pain at my heart grew ever a little less 
and a little less. I was very young—barely twenty-one 
—and it is not natural that youth should sorrow for ever. 
By almost imperceptible degrees I found myself shoul¬ 
dering anew the burden of existence, turning my face to 
the future, if not with eagerness at least with resignation. 
By October the first sharp edge of my pain had been 
blunted. A spirit of independence began to reassert itself 
within me. Out of the intense mental anguish of the past 
two months grew a gradual but inevitable reaction that 
finally culminated in an abrupt decision to return to 
London. 

“It’s time I got to work again,” I told Nanny one 
morning at breakfast, a faint briskness colouring my 
usually listless voice. “It’s been wonderfully good of you 



SPILLED WINE 


2 57 


to let me stay so long. I’ll never forget your kindness 
and I shall look forward to paying you lots of visits in 
the future—but I—I feel I ought to be going now.” 

She nodded her wise old head, and her eyes, as she 
peered wistfully across at me, had a look almost of clair¬ 
voyance in their steady depths. 

“I’ve been expecting you to say something o’ the sort 
this past week and more,” she replied. “I’ve noticed you 
getting kind o’ restless. And of course it’s only natural. 
You’re young and like all young things you must be 
getting about your business. Lord knows, I wouldn’t 
keep you—not now you’re strong and well enough to do 
without me—but I shall miss you, my dear; I shall miss 
you cruel.” 

A film of tears came over her eyes and getting up from 
my chair I went and put my arms about her bent old 
shoulders. 

“And I shall miss you too, Nanny dear,” I told her. 
“But I’ll come back again. I’d love to come back again 
—one day—when I’ve really earned a holiday—if you’ll 
have me.” 

“Have you indeed!” She turned her head sideways, 
kissing the hand that lay against her cheek. I saw her 
face twitch and pucker up queerly under the strain of 
self-control. “Have my Terry’s little girl! Is there any¬ 
thing in all the world I wouldn’t do for you? And don’t 
you know it?” 

Furtively I saw her take a corner of her apron and 
wipe away a tear from her eye. Her voice quivered as 
she went on. 

“There’s been times—I don’t mind tellin’ you now—as 
I’ve hoped you’d be having a little baby of your own— 


SPILLED WINE 


258 

and that you’d let me look after it for you—like I did 
Terry. But p’raps it’s just as well the good God didn’t 
send one—though I’d ’ave loved it! ... Ah, how I’d ’ave 
loved it! ... Terry’s baby! . . .” 

Her voice trailed away into a little sigh of yearning 
wistfulness. Unconsciously her arms crooked towards 
her breast as though actually encircling the tiny body of 
a child. She seemed to sway to and fro, to and fro, as 
though hushing it to sleep. 

She did not hear the smothered cry that broke from my 
lips as I snatched my hands from her shoulders and 
turned away. 

Her mention of Terry’s name, of the child I had so 
sweetly dreamed about and never now should have, had 
brought back the pain of my loss with an overwhelming 
intensity. For a moment, with clenched hands and 
trembling limbs, I stood behind her chair and fought a 
desperate battle for self-mastery. Then, with a calm¬ 
ness that surprised myself, I went back to my place at 
the table and finished my meal. 

I had only written to Alma once since Terry’s death. 
I had told her nothing at all of what had happened. 
I had merely stated that I was still at “Brill-Ray” and 
that my plans for the future were quite indefinite. In 
those first bleak days of bereavement my soul had shrunk 
from revealing, even to my best friend, the tragic devas¬ 
tation of all my hopes. 

Now I wrote to her saying that I was returning to 
London again. 

It was a cold blustery day at the beginning of No¬ 
vember when I travelled up by train from Elms tree to 


SPILLED WINE 


259 

Waterloo. The streets of the city as I passed through 
them seemed charged with a heavy, atmospheric depres¬ 
sion. I found myself shivering as I looked dismally out 
of the taxi windows. 

Alma was kneeling before the studio fire making toast, 
exactly as she had been doing on the evening when I 
had first gone to live there three years before, and as I 
stood in the doorway looking round a sudden rush of 
tenderness and thankfulness swept over me. I had a 
feeling of having “come home,” of having returned like a 
prodigal from a far country. 

With a glad cry of welcome my friend dropped her 
toasting-fork and ran to meet me, folding me in her arms 
with impulsive eagerness. 

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” she choked, as she took off 
my hat and coat and pulled forward a chair for me to 
sit in. “How I’ve missed you! I began to think you 
were never coming back! Three months! And you said 
you were only going for a fortnight! . . . And you’re 
pale! Ann, what’s the matter? You look as if you’d 
been ill! You’re thin—and your eyes are all sunken and 
dark.” 

“I know, I know,” I answered wearily. “I’ll tell you 
all about—everything—presently.” 

Like a tired bird sinking down into its nest, I relaxed 
into the big arm-chair she had pulled forward to receive 
me. I looked at her anxious, loving face, at the cosy 
room with its orange-shaded lamp and blazing firelight, 
and a burst of spiritual warmth seemed to flood my 
frozen heart. For the first time in my life I knew what 
it was to feel genuinely homesick. 

“This is your true life! This is where you belong!” 


SPILLED WINE 


260 

I told myself urgently. “The other was but an extrava¬ 
gant dream. For the sake of your future peace of mind, 
forget it, as quickly, as completely as you can. No good 
can come of remembering.” 

That night, as we sat together over the glowing embers, 
our arms clasped about each other’s waists, I told Alma 
the full story of my life with Terry—and of his death. 

When it was finished she kissed me very tenderly and 
stroked my hair. 

“Poor little Ann,” she sympathized. “Poor little Ann! 
How you must have suffered!” 

Instinctively my arms tightened about her. 

“I have! Oh, my dear, I have!” I told her. “But 
I’m going to fight it down. . . . It’s hard to see now 
that the future can hold anything good in it—anything 
worth while. But I know it can’t be really as blank as 
it seems.” 

For several moments we sat in silence, staring at the 
red ashes that dropped one by one through the bars 
of the grate. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, I took 
my friend’s face between my two hands, looked long and 
searching into her eyes. 

“I wonder,” I began slowly, “why you’ve always been 
so good to me? Why you’ve always stuck to me as you 
have? I haven’t deserved it. I haven’t appreciated it. 

. . . I see it all now. I’ve been selfish and hard—hard 
as stone. I’ve only thought of myself—of my own good. 
And yet you’ve loved me! Oh, my dear, love me always! 
Promise me you will love me always.” 

And I clung to her desperately as to something inex¬ 
pressibly precious. My lips, as I kissed her cheek, were 
salt with the taste of my own tears. 


CHAPTER XX 


S HORTLY after my return to London “Petronia” 
was published. It achieved something of a sensa¬ 
tion in the literary world. It was extensively criticized, 
both favourably and unfavourably; it raised a mild storm 
of ultra-virtuous hostility among certain sections of the 
reading public, and it ran through three editions in the 
first nine months; all of which had the effect of both 
gratifying and bewildering me. I could not account to 
myself for such instantaneous success. Re-reading the 
book in the light of recent events it seemed to me an 
incredibly unreal and tawdry composition. 

“There’s a sort of diabolical cleverness about it,” I 
admitted impartially, “but it has no soul, no honest 
raison d’etre. It’s audacious, like a woman in tights, 
brilliant with the wit of a decrepit satyr. I don’t know 
how I ever came to write it.” 

Secretly I was ashamed of it. It brought back things 
I wanted intensely to forget. It seemed to challenge me, 
to taunt me, and gradually there grew up in me a pas¬ 
sionate desire to repudiate the attitude of mind it ex¬ 
pressed, to justify the new Ann that had risen like a 
Phoenix from the dead ashes of a tragic past. 

Within a little while I was at work upon a new novel. 
It was of an entirely different genre from “Petronia.” 
It depended for effect neither upon superficial brilliance 
of style nor upon reckless audacity of treatment. It was 

hewn from the living rock of truth as laboriously as a 

261 


262 


SPILLED WINE 


man cuts steps out of a mountain precipice. It took 
me a long time to write. There were moments when it 
plunged me into an abyss of blank despair and others 
when it lifted me to the topmost pinnacle of self-esteem. 
It cost me more honest labour, more time, more concen¬ 
tration, more complete absorption of mental and physical 
endurance than anything else I had ever done. To its 
making I gave the best that was in me without stint or 
hesitation. I lost myself in the exigencies of my own 
creation. And in doing so I found salvation. 

As the months slipped by a slow metamorphosis took 
place within me. More and more surely the urgencies 
of my work thrust the memory of Terry into the back¬ 
ground of my mind. I ceased to dwell upon the past 
with morbid regrets. My sleeping hours, heavy with 
the exhaustion of mental effort, ceased to be haunted 
with the bitter-sweet memories of those golden weeks of 
youth's first passion. By the time my second novel was 
finished I awoke to the discovery that the tragedy of 
my bereavement had been robbed of its first poignancy. 
I could review the whole adventure with the calmness of 
philosophical abstraction. I had not forgotten Terry. 
He had merely ceased to be the predominating feature in 
my existence. 

For nearly three years my life flowed on with even 
tenor like a stream which, having passed the turbulent 
rapids of its mountain source, settles down to steady 
progress between wide and placid banks. 

I wrote three more novels and a certain number of 
short stories—afterwards published in book-form—all of 
which helped to enhance my reputation as a writer, and 
to increase my rapidly growing circulation, besides sup- 


SPILLED WINE 


263 

plying me with an income sufficient for my needs. I 
wrote now purely for the joy of writing—to express 
the very best that was in me. The urge of fame, the 
satisfaction of seeing my work praised by others, meant 
less to me now than the knowledge that I had done good 
work. 

I continued to live with Alma at the modest little 
studio flat at Chelsea. We frequently discussed proposi¬ 
tions for moving into more commodious apartments, but 
somehow we never carried any of them into effect. 

From time to time we travelled on the continent, slip¬ 
ping away here and there for short periods whenever 
the opportunity presented itself. During the three years 
we visited Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Spain, the South 
of France and Egypt. 

Certain of these holidays recur to my mind more 
forcibly than the rest—for instance a week that we spent 
on the upper reaches of the Rhine at the end of Septem¬ 
ber, 1912, another at Lugano in the following year, and 
again two glorious months in Sicily at the beginning of 
1914. They are like vivid cameos in the album of fade¬ 
less memory. 

Taormina beyond all other places woos me with the 
fragrant essence of lingering enchantment. I have but 
to close my eyes to see Mount Etna with its snowy crown 
and trailing plume of smoke, rising cone-shaped from the 
verdant lap of Sicily, to see the little headland with its 
Graeco-Roman ruins jutting out over the sea like the 
gleaming horn of a crescent moon, whilst far below, at the 
sleeping feet of Giardina, curve the blue-green waters of 
the Mediterranean, holding, like a jewel in a jade cup, 


264 SPILLED WINE 

the tiny palm-covered island that one can walk out to 
almost dry-footed. 

I was very happy in our journeyings and very peaceful. 
I had found a new pleasure in life—the joy of the trav¬ 
eller who wanders for the pure delight of wandering, who 
regards the whole earth as one vast, teeming treasure- 
house of beauty, who drinks at the font of knowledge 
with the certain consciousness that he is the anointed 
heir of all the ages. 

Looking back over the period I have now covered, my 
life seems to present itself to my mind in alternate 
patches of light and shade, of storm and calm, the whole 
linked together by the stable purpose of my work. It 
is like a chain of bright and sombre beads strung to¬ 
gether on a silver thread, the thread representing my 
inner, mental life, the beads the outward forms of my 
experiences. 

I can trace the effects of each new adventure, each 
subtle reaction, upon the things I wrote. “.ZEsop Up-to- 
date” was the spontaneous ebullition of youth and high 
spirits—nothing more. At the time of writing it I had 
not so much as scratched the surface of experience. Life 
had not yet presented me with any serious problems or 
complexities. What little knowledge I possessed was 
purely theoretical. The stamp of reality was missing. 
In “Petronia” I can trace the violence of my recoil from 
a degrading passion, the pride that strove to hide its 
hurt beneath a cloak of exaggerated cynicism. In “The 
Bridge of Mist” my whole moral outlook seems to have 
swung round like the finger of a compass. I look at life 
from a new angle. Raw tragedy has swept the minor 
calamity of Paris out of consideration, has over-towered 


SPILLED WINE 


265 

every other emotion as completely as a palace over¬ 
towers a peasant’s hovel. I am alone with the funda¬ 
mental verities of life, my soul stripped bare to the sting¬ 
ing lash of truth. I am a weary pilgrim seeking in the 
arid sands of the desert some answer to the baffling riddle 
of existence. 

And so it is with each of my three succeeding novels. 
In “Dust of the Dawn/’ “Burning Ghats” and “A 
Pagan’s Progress,” I see in turn this same unconscious 
self-reflection, this everlasting readjustment to a new 
phase of experience. “Nina Desmond,” the authoress, 
is not one woman but many, a chameleon taking on the 
hue of each progressive phase of a varied career. And 
when she has been most faithful to the vision that is in 
her she has often failed most singularly in her appeal to 
the public. As I think I have already said, “Petronia” 
is still my “best seller.” My name is invariably coupled 
with it as though it were the finest thing I had ever 
written instead of the least worthy. Quite recently, de¬ 
spite my strong personal reluctance in the matter, it 
achieved the doubtful honour of being filmed. 

Thus do the vain ambitions of our youth revenge them¬ 
selves upon our saner judgments! 

I was upon the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday, 
with already a good income and an assured position 
among present-day novelists, when the war broke out. 

I am not going to write much about it; no more than 
is absolutely necessary to the telling of my story. Al¬ 
ready it has dragged its weary way across the pages of 
innumerable novels, good, bad and indifferent. Readers 
must be very weary of encountering it in their fiction, of 


266 


SPILLED WINE 


being brought sharply up against it as it sprawls like 
some colossal putrid carcass across the fair highway of 
Civilization, blocking each avenue of adventure down 
which the modern story-teller wends his way. 

The recounting of any part of what has already been 
so often and so variously told cannot serve any useful 
purpose. Also the effect of the war upon the intimate 
events of the present history were not strikingly appar¬ 
ent. 

With Alma I joined the Red Cross, and later took up 
nursing in a London hospital, finally being drafted to 
Wimereux in the April of 1915. Here we remained to¬ 
gether for three months, after which we were separated, 
Alma, who became wonderfully efficient in her work, 
being sent to a field hospital close behind the line, whilst 
I was detailed to a private hospital run by an English 
lady of title in a large, old-fashioned chateau on the 
outskirts of le Touquet. 

I remained here for about eleven months altogether, 
and during that time certain events took place which, 
from the nature of their personal effect upon me, stand 
out in my memory against a monotonous background of 
physical hard work and intense mental strain. 

I received two proposals of marriage, one from a 
young French flying officer with an almost unrivalled 
reputation for skill and daring, and one from an English 
captain in a Middlesex regiment; I heard news of the 
death of my brother Stephen in the battle of Loos at the 
end of October, 1915; and I saw Martin again. 

Fate played many strange tricks during those four 
grim years of war. I have always counted that sudden 
unexpected meeting with the man who had once been 


SPILLED WINE 


267 

my greatest friend, to whom I owed so much of my early 
mental development, among the strangest happenings of 
my life. 

One evening I was passing along a corridor of the 
chateau when, from a certain room at the end—a small 
room that had only one bed in it, and was generally 
reserved for very special cases—I heard the faint, sweet 
whisperings of a violin. 

Instantly, as though some invisible hand had stretched 
out and touched me, I paused to listen. 

The music went on, very softly, very tenderly, with an 
indescribable effect of wistfulness, as though the unseen 
player were shaping ineffable thoughts out of pure sound. 
Sometimes there came notes like rustling leaves, some¬ 
times a muted human sob, sometimes the far-away echo 
of a shepherd’s pipe upon a distant hill, the whimpering 
moan of wind in lonely trees, the cry of a lost soul seek¬ 
ing help—and sometimes a hush, a little halting pause, a 
soundless note that only the ears of the soul might catch. 

I listened on and presently, out of this formless im¬ 
provisation there grew a definite movement, a running 
brook of happy melody that caught my heart as in a 
noose, that sent a sudden rush of recollection over all my 
being. Once more in imagination I lay curled on the 
big sofa at Laburnum Villa, listening to the music of 
white hands that swayed like phantoms in the deepening 
dusk! Once more I felt myself soaring, like a bird, 
through great deserts of limitless space. . .. 

The unseen musician was playing “Ann! ” 

I found Martin sitting propped up against a bank of 
pillows, his head tilted sideways as his chin rested upon 


268 


SPILLED WINE 


his violin, his big, deeply sunken eyes staring vaguely 
out through the window at the sunset-tinted sky beyond. 

For a moment, lost in the roseate glow of some fanci¬ 
ful reverie, he did not appear to notice me. I had moved 
close to the bedside before he suddenly turned his head 
and glanced up into my face. I shall never forget the 
expression that came over his own as he did so, the look 
of amazed delight, of incredible radiance. 

At first I think he was a little doubtful whether it 
really was I and not some apparition, a happy ghost of 
his wandering imagination. His violin dropped unheeded 
to the bed. He passed one trembling hand before his 
eyes, then stretched it doubtfully towards me. When I 
caught it in both of mine he gave a little weak cry of 
joy. 

“You?” he whispered feebly. “You?—Ann?” 

“Martin!” I answered and crushed his thin, white 
fingers against my breast. “To find you here—-like this! ” 

“You didn’t—know? What made you come?” 

“I heard you playing. It was as though a voice called 
me.” 

“I called you—your spirit. I was dreaming of you 
. . . of years ago . . . when you were a little girl . . . 
of when we sat . . . that evening ... on the hill to¬ 
gether. . . . And suddenly a feeling came over me that 
you were near!” 

“I had paused outside the door to listen. Something 
inside me seemed to know it was you.” 

He nodded, drew in a deep breath, hesitated a moment 
and then went on: 

“To think . . . after all this time ... we meet again 



SPILLED WINE 269 

. . . like this! I’m glad you’ve come. I wanted so much 
to see you . . . just once more.” 

Something in the tones of his voice set my heart beat¬ 
ing with a painful violence. They had a quietness, a 
resignation about them that alarmed me. 

“Why—once more?” I said. “I’m nursing in this hos* 
pital, I’ll come as often as I can—while you’re here.” 

He shook his head and smiled. 

“That won’t be for long.” 

“Why not? Are you being sent somewhere else?” 

“No. Not that. They’re going to operate—but I don’t 
think it’s much use.” 

A little cry of distress broke from my lips. Impulsively 
I leant towards him. 

“Don’t! Please, please don’t say that,” I begged. 
“Perhaps things will be better than you think. The doc¬ 
tors here are very clever.” 

Again he shook his head. 

“It’s not a question of doctors—only,” he said. “I’m 
very tired. Life is so brutal—and so empty. I don’t 
think I want to go on any more.” 

Tears sprang to my eyes, dripped down over my 
cheeks and fell upon the white coverlet. An overwhelm¬ 
ing pity stirred in my heart for this man to whom I owed 
so much, who for years had so devotedly loved me. The 
Past woke up and marched accusingly before me, brand¬ 
ing my soul with a sense of deep ingratitude. 

“Martin! Dear, dear Martin!” I said. “I can’t bear 
to hear you talk like that.” 

“But why?” he queried.' “I’ve seen too much of death 
to fear it. It’s life we should fear.” 

I raised my head and searched his pale gaunt face 


SPILLED WINE 


270 

“Has it—been so cruel to you—as that?” I marvelled. 

He smiled and shook his head. His eyes grew very 
tender. 

“I’m not complaining,” he replied. “I dare say it’s 
given me as much as it gives most men—more perhaps. 
. . . It has given me some wonderful memories. It has 
given me a dream that will never perish, that I shall take 
with me on into eternity. But having given me that she 
has nothing left to offer . . . and so . . . and so-” 

His voice trailed off into a sigh. Very gently he stroked 
my hand. 

“You are not altered a bit,” he said. “The same Ann, 
the same wondering child’s eyes with the woman’s soul 
behind them! . . .You give one the impression that you 
are always on a quest—a journey of discovery—that you 
are always seeking . . . seeking . . .! I wonder will 
you ever find—what you are looking for? Will you ever 
be satisfied?” 

I stayed with him for several minutes longer, then, 
with a promise to come again, I tore myself away. 

I saw him again the following morning, just before the 
operation which removed both his shattered legs. 

He had been blown up by a mine at Arras after five 
months in the trenches. His general health was irre¬ 
mediably broken; his highly sensitive nervous system 
had received too violent a shock to permit any chance 
of recovery. He died three days after the operation 
without having once recovered consciousness. 

Many and many a time I have wondered over that 
chance meeting. It had an essence of romance, of com¬ 
pleteness about it ineffably sweet, indescribably sad. I 
have sometimes wondered who lent Martin that violin, 



SPILLED WINE 


271 

whether Fate put it into his hands for the express pur¬ 
pose of calling me to his side. 

With Martin’s death the slow revulsion of feeling, the 
intense personal loathing of the war that had been stead¬ 
ily gathering force within me during the past months, 
came suddenly to a head. I felt that I simply could not 
go on nursing any longer, that I could not associate any 
longer with anything so ghastly, so unutterably devilish 
as the whole thing now appeared to me. 

The horrors of my daily experience began to prey upon 
my mind. Instead of becoming hardened to it I became 
more and more conscious of the senseless savagery going 
on all around me. And there seemed no end to it, no 
cessation of the butchery, the pitiful mutilation and sac¬ 
rifice of human lives. My brain became the battlefield of 
a passionate rebellion against all accepted ideas of pa¬ 
triotism. 

“War is wrong,” I told myself over and over again. 
“It is mad, wasteful, savage, inhuman. Nothing can 
defend it. Nothing can excuse it. All this waving of 
flags and blowing of trumpets is a device of the devil 
to blind men to the significance of murder! If patriotism 
teaches nations to fight it is no virtue but the vilest evil 
that was ever sown in human souls!” 

All the separate agonies of individual soldiers became 
welded into one immense, world-wide agony that haunted 
me day and night without ceasing. My nerves became 
strung up to a pitch of unendurable sensitiveness. I be¬ 
gan to suffer badly from insomnia. 

Finally, at the beginning of June, 1916, I had a 
nervous breakdown and was sent back to England. 


CHAPTER XXI 


I WAS ill for about six weeks. Then, little by little, 
I drifted back to the shores of health and sanity 
again. With convalescence came a sudden longing for 
peace and quietness, a desire to get away from the fret¬ 
ting atmosphere of war into the healing solitude of the 
country. I remembered “Brill-Ray.” 

I had written to Nanny regularly during the past five 
years, but, somehow, I had never been able to keep my 
promise to go and stay with her. Each time I had 
thought of doing so something had happened to prevent 
me. Now, like a tired child, turning to a refuge that 
has once sheltered it, my thoughts winged back to the 
little flower-decked cottage at Elmstree. 

Thus it came about that one afternoon in August I 
pushed open the little wooden gate and walked up the 
flag-stoned pathway between the pinks and mignonette 
and sweet-william and lupins that still flourished in their 
old-time profusion. 

Secretly, in my heart of hearts I had nursed a vague 
reluctance to return to the scene of my unhappy love. 
I had dreaded the re-opening of a wound that had now 
healed almost without a scar. The great tragedy of the 
war had deadened the last lingering nerve of personal 
sorrow. I did not want to run the risk of reviving, even 
ever so slightly, what was now, to all intents and pur¬ 
poses, dead. 

I need not have been afraid. Elmstree brought me 

272 


SPILLED WINE 


273 

nothing but peace, the peace that envelopes body and 
mind as well as spirit. 

Old Nanny was very little altered—her hair a trifle 
whiter perhaps, a few more wrinkles on her dear old 
face—and she greeted me with all the loving eagerness 
I so well remembered. 

I had the same bedroom as of old, I slept on the same 
bed—the one upon which my union with Terry had first 
been consummated, upon which his dead body had lain 
for three days and nights like the body of a sleeping 
god. I thought of all these things, of all the youthful 
glamour of our love, as, on the first evening of my ar¬ 
rival, I stood calmly looking down upon it. And I was 
amazed to find how little such things moved me. A vague 
nuance of sadness drifted over my spirit like a mist over 
a valley, an ineffable tenderness, a sense of delicate and 
faded romance like the perfume of a long-treasured lav¬ 
ender, but I experienced no single pang of regret. 

“Perhaps it was all for the best,” I told myself resign¬ 
edly. “If he had lived we might, in time, have come to 
love one another less—and that would have been the 
greater tragedy.” 

From the distance of years, through the eyes of wid¬ 
ened experience, I saw faults in my idol to which love had 
blinded me. He was still dear to my thoughts, but I no 
longer ignored the fact of his common humanity. After 
all who could say what might have happened when the 
first blaze of his love for me had died down? 

No, on the whole, I did not now regret what had hap¬ 
pened. I would not have set back the finger of Fate 
had it been in my power to do so. My idyl had been 
perfect while it lasted. As a perfect memory it lay locked 


SPILLED WINE 


274 

away in my heart. Doubtless it had had a great effect 
upon the subsequent shaping of my character, far greater 
than the transient, folly-guided incident of Paris, but it 
no longer wielded an active influence upon my life. I 
could move about the scenes of former happiness without 
one touch of scarifying bitterness. Only one spot did I 
purposely avoid—the spot upon which Terry had met 
his death. 

As the summer passed a new sort of happiness, the 
happiness of a refreshed mind and a reinvigorated body, 
welled up in me like sap in a storm-battered tree. The 
hollows filled out under my eyes, the roses came back 
into my cheeks, every nerve, every muscle in my body 
seemed gradually revivified into a new consciousness of 
health. 

I spent most of my time rambling about the neighbour¬ 
hood. I discovered parts I had never been to with Terry. 
I wandered over hill and dale, and along deserted sylvan 
paths in beech and pine wood. I traced the green course 
of the little stream for miles along the valley. Like some 
high priestess, reverent and solitary, I walked along the 
aisles of Nature’s lovely earth-temple, a sense of rest 
enshadowing me like the wings of some guardian spirit. 

But for a vague consciousness of the war I should have 
counted my serenity complete. Indeed there were mo¬ 
ments when, among the rustic beauty of my surround¬ 
ings, I forgot the ceaseless booming of the guns, away 
out there in France, I forgot the ghastly nightmare of the 
world’s agony. 

As summer merged into early autumn the country-side 
grew more and more lovely, with the hectic loveliness 
of a woman who, having reached the limit of her charms, 


SPILLED WINE 


275 


puts forth her utmost effort to please. The last of the 
apples reddened in the orchard. The last golden sheaf 
of corn vanished from the fields. The leaves of the trees 
turned slowly from green to ochre, from ochre to russet 
brown and deepest crimson. Chestnuts shed their glossy 
fruits upon the ground. Cobnuts fattened into tempting 
bunches in the woods. The morning came when, with a 
little shock of wonderment, I realized that the roses had 
given place to Michaelmas daisies and that already sev¬ 
eral sorts of chrysanthemums were opening shaggy heads 
on tall, ragged-leafed stems. It was as though Nature 
had put the soft pedal on the throbbing anthem of the 
year, slowing down the music to a majestic, lingering 
cadence. 

The peace of my soul deepened. The future stretched 
before me like a calm and lovely landscape, holding no 
more frenzied joys perhaps, but also no more violent 
sorrows. My greatest satisfaction in life—my work— 
was still left to me. Sooner or later the fighting would 
be over and I should be free to satisfy my insatiable 
desire to travel again. I had a particular longing to go to 
Japan and to the Pacific Islands—to any spot in the 
world unscarred by the violence of war. 

“Life is a stern school and I am learning many les¬ 
sons,” I philosophized. “One cannot expand without 
growing-pains—and when they are over one finds that it 
has been worth while. . . . Maybe human emotions, loves 
and hates and sorrows and disappointments, are only 
given to us writers in order that we may understand our 
fellowmen—not to absorb our lives as others are ab¬ 
sorbed. We are the ‘free-lances’ of the emotional world, 
and it is right that we should remain so. To anchor our- 


SPILLED WINE 


276 

selves in any special niche might prove iatal to our art— 
qui salt? . . . Our experiences are the windows through 
which we gain glimpses of the fundamental workings of 
the human mind—to be used for the purposes of artistic 
verity, not clung to as personal possessions.” 

I was still barely twenty-six years of age, but already 
I felt that I had walked far upon the road of knowledge. 
I took it for granted that I had sampled the whole range 
of life’s possible experiences, that Fate had no further 
surprises in store for me. Already I thought of myself 
as having left youth and the emotions of youth definitely 
behind me. In this as in many other settled convictions 
I was destined to prove myself wrong. When my last 
adventure came to me my heart was like a field which, 
after having grown various experimental crops, has lain 
fallow for a long time, accumulating a steady store of 
wealth of which it is supremely unaware. I who prided 
myself upon my knowledge of the world found myself 
hopelessly ignorant in the matter of my own soul. 

One afternoon I was sitting upon a stile looking to¬ 
wards the sunset over a field that sloped steeply away 
to my left, when I became aware of a man’s figure walk¬ 
ing very slowly up the incline towards me. 

The sun was in my eyes, and for a while I could make 
out no detail of his appearance beyond the fact that he 
seemed to be walking with difficulty, leaning heavily upon 
a stick, and that he was wearing an officer’s uniform. 

Instantly the thought flashed into my mind: “He is 
a soldier, and he has been wounded, poor fellow.” And 
because my hospital experience had taught me how sensi- 


SPILLED WINE 


277 

tive disabled men frequently were, I purposely refrained 
from looking at him as he approached. 

He was within a few feet of me when I casually turned 
my head and looked into his face. The next moment my 
heart had given a queer thump in my breast, my lips had 
uttered a little cry of amazement. It was the nameless 
Englishman who had been so kind to me during my 
journey to Paris nearly seven years before! 

He looked older, his hair at the temples was tinged 
with grey and a jagged, recently healed scar ran diag¬ 
onally across his cheek, but the eyes alone would have 
told me who it was—those eyes that, having once seen, 
one could never forget, that were like twin lakes in the 
clear bronze of his Saxon skin. 

He recognized me in the same instant that I recog¬ 
nized him, and with a similar cry to my own he hobbled 
the last few steps towards me, holding out his left hand 
in greeting. 

“Well, by all that’s wonderful! You! My little lost 
friend of the boat!” he cried. 

As his fingers closed eagerly over mine I recalled the 
firm clasp with which he had bidden me adieu through 
the cab window, outside the Gare du Nord. 

“How strange—that we should meet again—like this,” 
I returned a little breathlessly. “I’ve often thought of 
that journey.” 

“And I—how many times I’ve thought of it also!” 
he answered. “It must be—let me see—over six years 
ago—seven next January. I always felt, somehow, that 
we should meet again one day. But seven years is a 
long time. I’d almost begun to give up hope. And now 
—behold! Here you are! And here I am! For all the 


SPILLED WINE 


278 

world as though we’d met by special appointment!” 

As he talked, the years that stood between us and that 
long ago episode of January, 1910, seemed to melt away 
as though they had never been. Once more I seemed to 
feel the beat of the salt spray on my face, the surge of 
young ambitions in my heart. And, suddenly, I had a 
feeling that, all unconsciously, I too had been looking 
forward to this meeting, that it was no blind chance that 
had led us together again in this unexpected fashion. 

With perfect ease we drifted into conversation. He 
asked me if I were staying in the neighbourhood, and I 
told him that I was taking a sort of rest-cure at “Brill- 
Ray.” 

“I did a year’s nursing in France and got knocked 
up,” I explained. “I don’t think it was so much the 
actual work as the mental strain. At first I took it all 
as a matter of course, as a sort of patriotic duty, but 
afterwards the rights and wrongs, the ethics of war in 
general, began to torment me. It doesn’t do to have too 
much imagination in war-time.” 

My companion nodded, changing his position so that 
he could lean with his right arm upon the top of the 
stile. 

“I know just what you mean,” he said gravely. “My 
own conscience has been giving me the same sort of 
trouble. It’s so easy to swim with the tide, to kid one- 
• self that, individually, we have no responsibility, that it’s 
all something utterly outside and beyond us, that what 
we think doesn’t matter. But an honest man can’t be 
satisfied with such an evasion. After all isn’t public 
opinion—national consciousness—nothing else but the 
united mass of individual thinkings? And in that sense 


SPILLED WINE 


279 

aren’t the thoughts of every single person of vital impor¬ 
tance? Mind you, I’m not saying that England is 
wrong—that any particular nation is wrong—I’m saying 
that war is wrong, that as an argument it’s absurd and 
uncivilized and utterly inconclusive, that it’s time the 
world found some other way of settling its quarrels.” 

He broke off for a moment, his features set in a sudden 
grim earnestness that conveyed to me an odd impression 
of inner conflict. Then he went on again. 

“It’s amazing when one considers the fact that of his 
own freewill man has deliberately contrived this diabolic 
means for his own destruction. And it’s curious the way 
it seems to have drawn us all into it—like bits of cork 
in a whirlpool. There simply wasn’t any escape—not 
even for you.” 

“Nor for you. I—I see you’ve been wounded.” 

“Oh that!” With a shrug of indifference he glanced 
down at his stiffly hanging right foot. “I got blown up 
in a shell crater about five months ago. The bones of 
the ankle were so badly crushed it’s a wonder they’ve 
managed to patch it up at all. But it’s getting on splen¬ 
didly now. In another month or so I dare say it’ll be 
quite a useful member again. Marvellous how surgical 
science has advanced in the last two years! Man’s ef¬ 
fort to patch up his own self-inflicted wounds I suppose 
—rather on the lines of a madman who breaks a plate 
for the satisfaction of sticking it together again. But 
there—if you’ve been nursing you must be sick to death 
of such things. Let’s talk about something more cheer¬ 
ful. Tell me about yourself, for instance, what you’ve 
been doing all this long time? I remember you were very 


SPILLED WINE 


280 

ambitious. You wanted to become a writer? Tell me 
how far your ambitions have been realized?” 

As the rich timbre of his voice flowed out in harmo¬ 
nious vibrations through the warm glow of the sunset, a 
peculiar feeling of pleasure stole over me. It seemed 
incredible that I had only known this man for a few 
short hours all those years ago. Without the least hesi¬ 
tation I found myself talking to him exactly as I had 
talked to him on the boat and in the Calais-Paris ex¬ 
press. With the simplicity of a child telling a story I 
told him all about myself from the moment of our parting 
outside the Gare du Nord to the moment of our present 
unexpected meeting, omitting only the events connected 
with Gustave and Terry. 

“I suppose, to a certain extent Fve achieved—what I 
set out to do,” I concluded thoughtfully. “At least I’ve 
begun. Everything I write seems just a little better than 
the last—and there’s still plenty of time to do better. I 
suppose five novels and two books of short stories by 
the age of twenty-six isn’t bad?” 

“Bad? I should say it was very good,” he rejoined. 
“But you haven’t told me the names of your books yet.” 

As I repeated them over to him he gave a little start 
of surprise. A look of amazement lit up the blue depths 
of his eyes. 

“You are ‘Nina Desmond’?” he cried. “Why, I’ve 
read them all, of course! In fact ‘The Bridge of Mist’ 
I’ve read several times. My sister sent it out to me 
while I was in France. It interested me immensely. And 
to think that you were the author of it! Chance has 
indeed been playing strange tricks with me!” 

And he went on to speak of each of the five books with 


SPILLED WINE 281 

an intimate knowledge that both surprised and delighted 
me. 

“ ‘Petronia’ was the only one I didn’t altogether like/’ 
he said. “I could scarcely believe that ‘The Bridge of 
Mist’ could have come from the same pen. The point- 
of-view, the whole psychology of the author, seemed com¬ 
pletely changed. I should have said it was impossible 
for one person to have written both.” He paused for a 
moment and seemed to consider me thoughtfully before 
adding, “Save under very exceptional circumstances. . . . 
So you, my little nameless acquaintance of long ago, are 
‘Nina Desmond,’ the celebrated authoress! Life is in¬ 
deed a strange gamble! I’m glad Fate has been kind 
to you.” 

I looked away from him to where the sun, like the half 
of a great, blood-red disc, w r as just slipping down behind 
a bank of low-lying purple clouds. 

“Kind?” I echoed reflectively. “You mean in per¬ 
mitting me to achieve—something of my ambition?” 

He seemed to hesitate and his voice softened as he 
answered. 

“Not only in that. I hope she has been kind to you 
in other ways too.” 

I shrugged my shoulders ever so slightly and, still 
without looking at him, I replied: 

“I don’t think I have anything to complain of. One 
can’t have everything.” 

“No,” he agreed. “That’s quite true. But some people 
realize their hopes far more fully than others. They 
seem to be born rich—in those things that really matter. 
I should have said you were one of them.” 

“Why?” I asked. 


282 


SPILLED WINE 


“I don’t know. It’s just an impression you create. 
I suppose you have what one would call a magnetic per¬ 
sonality. One thinks of you as attracting success—hap¬ 
piness—anything you greatly desired.” 

I paused a moment before answering; then I said, 
impulsively: 

“What’s the use of attracting things one can’t keep?” 

The instant I had spoken I was sorry for having done 
so. I don’t know what my expression told him, but I 
had a sudden odd feeling that a shutter had slid from 
before my soul, leaving it bare to his gaze, I found my¬ 
self blushing, absurdly, like a young girl. Then, de¬ 
liberately, I compelled myself to turn my head and look 
into his face. He was regarding me with kindly smiling 
eyes—eyes that were full of friendship, full of a calm, 
depthless understanding as measureless as the sea they 
reminded me of. Once more, without effort, without con¬ 
scious intent, we had drifted into the subtle intimacy 
that had come to us so amazingly seven years before. 
Once more I felt myself in the presence of one whose 
intuitive knowledge of me surpassed belief. But whereas 
in that far-off hour of my youth I had welcomed such 
a knowledge, now I feared it. 

“No one can keep everything. It would not be well 
if we could,” my companion told me quietly. “We are 
like children walking along a beach strewn with brightly 
coloured pebbles. At first we try to collect them all, but 
as we grow wiser we learn to discriminate. Our hands 
are too small—and life is too short—and so we endeavour 
to keep only the very best—those from which we can 
extract most pleasure and most profit.” 

“But sometimes we aren’t allowed to do even that.” 


SPILLED WINE 


283 


“No. That’s true.” 

“And at first the—the letting go hurts.” 

“But if we are philosophers it will only teach us to 
value still more those that are left to us.” 

I gave a little, rather impatient sigh. 

“Don’t you think,” I said, “that philosophy is a much 
over-rated virtue?” 

He shook his head. 

“No. How can it be? It’s the one that gives value 
to all the rest. It’s the ballast that helps to steady the 
boat of youth’s ambition, the crutches that help us to 
hobble through life when we’ve made a hopeless mess of 
things. Some of us would cut a sorry figure without it.” 

Again I sighed. 

“But isn’t it rather a sort of makeshift, a shadow of the 
real thing, a device by which we poor deluded humans 
try to cheat ourselves into the belief that we’re happy 
and satisfied when we’re really not?” 

“But so long as we are cheated what does it matter? 
Under too close a scrutiny all life resolves itself into a 
complicated pattern of shadows. What difference can 
one more or less make?” 

“I don’t know—none probably.” 

I leant forward, clasped my hands about my knees 
and stared speculatively away into the distance. 

“I’m talking like this,” I said, “because there are 
moments when one feels a sort of impatience with the 
general planlessness of things—but, of course, in my 
heart of hearts I agree with you. It doesn’t do to ask 
too much of life. The fox was wise when he told him¬ 
self that the grapes were sour. ... If only we could 


284 


SPILLED WINE 


persuade ourselves that the things we don’t get—aren’t 
worth the having. ... !” 

My voice trailed away into a vague note of abstrac¬ 
tion. 

There was a short pause; then my companion re¬ 
marked : 

“Anyone would think, to hear you talk, that your own 
life had been a dismal failure instead of an indisputable 
success.” 

I made a little gesture. 

“No, no! Please don’t think I’m grumbling. It’s just 
a sudden mood that’s come over me, a sudden thought, 
‘What is it really worth?’ Besides, am I a success? 
Are we ever, any of us, successful according to our own 
judgments?” 

“You’ve achieved your ambition.” 

“Part of it.” 

“You’ve done a great deal more than most girls of 
your age—or men either. Surely your books are some¬ 
thing to be proud of?” 

“But has the writing of them really been worth while? 
They’ve taken a lot out of me—years of tremendously 
hard work.” 

“But you enjoyed doing them? They’ve brought you 
satisfaction—the knowledge of public appreciation?” 

“Yes—oh, yes. But is that enough? Hasn’t life got 
something more to offer? Something—oh, I don’t know 
. . . something more—more personal?” 

“You didn’t think so seven years ago. You told me 
that so long as your ambition was achieved you wanted 
nothing more—that you were ready to sacrifice every- 



SPILLED WINE 285 

thing to that. I wondered, at the time, how long it would 
be before you changed your mind.” 

Again I turned my head and looked into his eyes. 
“Did you?” I queried. “What a little fool you must 
have thought me.” 

“Indeed no.” 

“But you read me so easily—like a book.” 

“A very delightful book. My one regret was that I 
had to shut it up just when I had begun to get interested. 
I often wondered what had become of you, how your 
theories had worked out in practice.” 

“Did you?” 

There came another pause. Then I went on: 

“It is strange—our meeting again—like this.” 

“You remember I said we should—one day—and that 
you could tell me all that had happened to you in the 
meantime?” 

“But you never really expected that we should?” 

“I don’t know—I’d begun to give up hope, certainly. 
Seven years is a long time. So mqch can happen in it.” 
He glanced towards my left hand, lying bare and brown 
upon my knee, and added: “You’re not married I see?” 
“No.” 

“I thought you would have been.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It was just one of the conclusions 
I drew about you.” 

I considered the matter for a moment, then: 

“I don’t think I shall ever marry—now,” I said. 

“Why not?” 

“Well, I suppose, for one thing, I’ve chosen my writ¬ 
ing instead.” 


286 SPILLED WINE 

“Meaning that you don’t think you have room in your 
life for both?” 

“Yes, partly. Or rather I doubt if I could do justice 
to both. It seems a generally recognized thing that 
domestic and artistic life don’t run well in double har¬ 
ness.” I smiled as his simile of the beach recurred to 
my mind and concluded, “It’s one of the pebbles one 
has to throw away.” 

We talked on in the same strain a while longer, then, 
with a little shiver of cold, I suddenly awakened to the 
fact that it was getting late. 

The sun had been set some time. A faint scarf of 
autumnal mist was drifting towards us to the valley. In 
another hour it would be dark. 

“I’ll have to be going now,” I announced abruptly. 
“Miss Kendell will be wondering what has become of me. 
I generally have my tea at a quarter to five.” 

“I’m going past ‘Brill-Ray’ myself,” my companion 
instantly replied. “I should be glad to walk with you as 
far—if you don’t mind my being rather slow. I’m not 
used to getting about much yet.” 

With a little difficulty he succeeded in climbing the 
stile, and we began to walk side by side over a field to the 
high road. 

At the cottage gate we parted, and it was not until he 
had moved some dozen yards away, and I was already 
half-way up the flag-stoned path that I suddenly discov¬ 
ered that we had once more failed to exchange names. 
He was still my “Nameless Stranger,” and he knew me 
only as “Nina Desmond.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


O LD Nanny was waiting for me in the porch and 
something about her greeting struck me as un¬ 
usual. She seemed filled with suppressed excitement. 
Her little bird-like eyes literally danced with curiosity. 

“I didn’t know Mr. Carstairs was back, though I’d 
heard, of course, he’d been wounded again!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “And I didn’t know as you knew him, dearie? 
You never said anything.’” 

“But I don’t,” I replied. “Never saw him in my life.” 
“But wasn’t it him you was just speaking to? I thought 
I saw you shake hands.” 

I stopped still, amazed, dumbfounded. 

“Was that—Mr. Carstairs?” I demanded incredu¬ 
lously. 

She nodded. 

“Of course. But surely you must have known? You 
were talking to him.” 

“I—I didn’t know,” I mumbled stupidly. “I met him 
once before—years ago—but I never knew his name.” 

So that was Adrian Carstairs! My unknown English¬ 
man was the man who owned Selbourn Hall and most of 
the surrounding neighbourhood. He was the man whom 
Terry had casually referred to as “a great traveller” and 
“a jolly good sort.” 

Somehow the discovery filled me with dismay. It had 
been such a great pleasure to meet him again, to talk 

with him frankly, unreservedly, as to a man of my own 

287 


SPILLED WINE 


288 

class. And now—to discover him the possessor of wealth 
and vast acres, the head of an old county family! My 
first feeling was one of vague disappointment, as though 
a barrier had inexorably been raised between us. 

“I’d much rather he’d been—just nobody in particu¬ 
lar,” I reflected as I hurriedly washed my hands and 
smoothed my hair in front of the little tilted mirror on 
my dressing-table. “To think that all this time he’s 
been quite close to me—or at any rate that his home 
has been quite close—that I’ve actually been trespassing 
on his land—and that I didn’t know it. . . . He might 
have been killed at the war and then I’d never have 
known. . . . Supposing I’d run into him during that 
time with Terry! ... I wonder what he’s been doing all 
these seven years?” 

Over tea I had to listen to an ecstatic eulogy of Car- 
stairs from the eager lips of old Nanny. It seemed that, 
despite his long absences abroad, he had always been 
extremely popular among his tenantry and the people 
of the district, but that since the war—in which he had 
served with great distinction, winning the D.S.O. and 
being three times wounded—the feeling of local enthusi¬ 
asm had amounted almost to hero-worship. 

“They do say as he’s wonderfully generous to the wives 
and families of the men who’ve joined up off the estate,” 
she told me. “Allows ’em all so much a week out of his 
own pocket. And nobody’s ever in trouble but what he 
seems to find out about it and put it right. . . . Oh, he’s 
a fine man is Mr. Carstairs. Many’s the time he’s come 
riding by on his horse—and always a cheery word for 
everybody. What puzzles me is why he’s never married. 
He’ll be thirty-seven next January—I remember his com- 


SPILLED WINE 


289 

ing of age as if it was yesterday—and I’m sure a finer- 
looking man I never set eyes on. Some folks say it’s on 
account of his mother and sister and they being such 
invalids. Old Mrs. Carstairs died three years ago and 
Miss Anthea looks as if she might go any moment—and 
so devoted he’s always been to both of them. ... All 
the same it do seem a great pity he’s never married.” 
And she shook her head emphatically several times. 

During the rest of the evening she talked exclusively 
upon the same topic. Having once started, her love of 
gossip got the better of her; her tongue went on and 
on like the proverbial brook, fed at regular intervals by 
fresh streamlets of recollection. 

And I let her talk. 

Much of what she told me I was already familiar 
with, yet I found myself listening to every word with an 
interest that, for the time being, thrust every other mat¬ 
ter out of my mind. Leaning back in an arm-chair by 
the window, an unopened book upon my knees, I gazed 
dreamily out at the moonlit garden beyond, at the high 
road along which an occasional pedestrian went by with 
the shuffling gait of an agricultural labourer returning 
from his day’s work. 

I had a queer feeling of something within me standing 
still and holding its breath. I could not shake myself 
free of an odd sense of fatefulness in this sudden dramatic 
revelation of the identity of the man who for years had 
lurked in the hidden depths of my consciousness as one 
of the pleasantest memories of my life. 

“It’s strange that we should meet again—just now, 
when I seem to have lost all my other friends, when I 


290 


SPILLED WINE 


had given up all hope of ever again finding anyone who 
would really interest me,” I thought. 

When I retired to my bedroom that night I did some¬ 
thing I had not done for a very long time. I lit two 
candles and placing them one upon either side of my 
dressing-table mirror I subjected my reflection to a long 
and searching examination. 

For five years I had ceased to take any very great 
interest in my appearance. Beyond dressing myself in 
clothes that suited me I had not bothered very much. 
Now, abruptly, I found myself inspired with an urgent 
anxiety concerning this matter of my looks. Almost as 
though they had belonged to some interesting stranger 
I scrutinized each feature in the mirror before me. And 
what I saw gave me a tiny thrill of unexpected satis¬ 
faction. 

No trace of my recent illness remained visible in my 
face. Illuminated by the concentrated light of the two 
candles, it looked out at me from a cavern of surrounding 
blackness, vivid, eager, youthful, unquestionably attrac¬ 
tive, my short, sun-bleached hair framing its glowing 
pallor like the hair of a Rossetti’s “Beatrice.” 

“I wonder what it is about you that looks—different?” 
I whispered happily to the vision in the glass. “You’ve 
never been beautiful before—but you are almost beau¬ 
tiful to-night.” 

I went down to breakfast the next morning humming 
a snatch of song and wearing a knitted silk jumper of 
deep rose-pink. As I came in at the door old Nanny 
looked up at me and uttered an exclamation of mingled 
surprise and approval. 


SPILLED WINE 


291 


“How pretty you look!” she said. “Pink is certainly 
your colour. Why don’t you wear it more often?” 

“I don’t know,” I replied as I stooped and kissed her 
cheek. Then I added enigmatically. “Perhaps I will 
in future. It’s a discovery I’ve just made.” 

I was picking chrysanthemums for the parlour, great 
shaggy-headed blooms of various colours, when a man’s 
voice wished me a brisk “Good morning” from the direc¬ 
tion of the road, and turning I saw Mr. Carstairs stand¬ 
ing bare-headed by the gate. 

As I went forward to meet him he pushed it open, 
inviting himself in with the engaging self-assurance that 
was natural to him. 

“You’ve got a fine show of flowers,” he observed as 
he shook hands. “Those ‘Marie Masses’ are really 
beauties.” 

“Yes, aren’t they?” I agreed. “They’re Miss Ken¬ 
dall’s special pride. And those ‘Horace Martin’s’ will be 
rather sweet I think when they’re fully open.” 

He looked towards the clump of bursting yellow heads 
I had indicated and nodded. 

“If you’re interested in flowers I’ve got a new species 
of Dahlia I’d like to show you,” he said. “It’s called 
‘The Promise’—a huge single bloom exactly the colour 
of that pink blouse you’re wearing. It opened its first 
flower this morning. You must come with me and in¬ 
spect it.” 

“I should love to,” I said. 

“Good! We’ll go straight away—if you can spare 
the time. I’ll show you over the gardens. They’re con¬ 
sidered to be rather fine, though of course they’ve been 
rather neglected these last two years.” 


292 


SPILLED WINE 


My heart gave a funny, excited little jump. 

“You mean now, this morning?” 

“Yes, if you will. As a matter of fact I came over 
to ask you if you would come to lunch at the Hall. Eve 
told my sister about you and she’s looking forward very 
much to meeting you. She’s an invalid and doesn’t see 
many people. You will come, won’t you?” 

“Thank you, I—I’d love to,” I stammered. “It’s very 
kind of your sister.” 

Under the genial friendliness of his manner my mis¬ 
givings vanished. Running back into the cottage I told 
Nanny that I should be away for some hours and went 
upstairs to fetch my hat. 

As I put it on my mirror bravely upheld its verdict 
of the previous evening. A warm flush was in my cheeks. 
My eyes danced. Inexplicably the woman of the world 
had given place to a happy, eager girl, unsullied by the 
clumsy finger of experience. Kissing my hand to my 
reflection I ran with winged feet out of the room and 
down the crazy old staircase. 

During the walk to Selbourn Hall, which on account 
of my companion’s lameness was necessarily slow, we 
talked with the same freedom as on the previous evening. 
I began, rather abruptly, by asking him why he had not 
revealed his identity to me, leaving me to find it out 
from old Nanny. To which he replied: 

“But I took it for granted that you knew. Everybody 
knows me round here.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“But you do now.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then that’s all right. We’re introduced.” 


SPILLED WINE 


293 


“Are we?” 

“Well, I take it we are. Besides—you seem to forget 
we’re old friends.” 

An odd sense of pleasure shot up in me. In a flash 
my thoughts winged back to that January afternoon 
seven years ago. Again we were standing in the prow 
of the boat looking out over the glittering sea; we were 
in the dim-lit corridor of the Calais-Paris express . . . 
and always we were talking—talking. . . . Instinctively 
I turned and looked at him. He seemed very little al¬ 
tered, very little older. The feeling of friendliness, of 
sympathy that had sprung up so rapidly between us on 
that other occasion, was as strong as ever. It was exactly 
as though there had been no interval between, as though 
we had never parted. 

“I can’t help feeling how strange it is—that you should 
turn out to be Mr. Carstairs,” I said presently. “I’ve 
been here since August; I’ve heard your name mentioned 
scores of times; I’m afraid I’ve even been guilty of 
trespassing in your woods—and now to find I’ve known 
you all along. I mean I—I feel as if I’ve known you all 
along,” I hastened to amend. 

He nodded. 

“You have,” he said. “I’ve known you. I’ve never 
forgotten you. It seems like yesterday.” He broke off, 
regarded me thoughtfully and added, “You’re very little 
changed.” 

“No?” A wistful mood took possession of me. “Some¬ 
times I seem to myself to be an entirely different person.” 

He smiled. 

“Don’t be too different,” he said. 

I stared away over the hedge into a field beyond. 


SPILLED WINE 


294 

Somewhere in the middle of it a man was pitching turnips 
into a cart with a fork. 

“Seven years is a long time/’ I ruminated. 

“It can be/’ my companion admitted. “Depends a 
good deal upon how much one puts into it.” 

“Sometimes I feel as if I’ve lived a lifetime in mine— 
and sometimes I feel as if I’ve just been making scratches 
on a slate—and rubbing them out again. ... I don’t 
know. I’m afraid I’m rather an unsatisfactory sort of 
person.” 

He laughed. 

“An ungrateful person, you mean. How many people, 
I wonder, would give their ears to have had your sue- 
cess?” 

“Oh—success. I wasn’t meaning that.” 

“Then what were you meaning?” 

I shook my head, breaking off a spray of seeded “trav¬ 
eller’s joy” from the hedge as we went along. 

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. There is some¬ 
thing in life more essential than success—isn’t there? I 
mean things that matter—one’s inner self, one’s charac¬ 
ter, for instance.” 

Again he smiled. 

“You’re not going to tell me that your—your char¬ 
acter has degenerated?” 

I looked at him gravely, ignoring the lightness of his 
mood. 

“It hasn’t improved,” I said. “But as far as that goes 
I doubt if it was ever worth much. . . . I’ve been find¬ 
ing out things about myself—especially since I came 
down here. I’ve had such a lot of time to think—to get 
outside of myself, as it were. I never realized before 


SPILLED WINE 


295 

what a colossal egotist I was, how, all my life, I’ve been 
riding rough-shod over people. . . . It—it’s rather an 
unpleasant discovery to make,” I added ingenuously. 

For a moment he was silent. He seemed to be follow¬ 
ing some secret train of thought. Then: 

“I see you haven’t lost your old fondness for self- 
analysis,” he remarked. “No, no, you haven’t changed. 
You only think you have. And I don’t suppose you’re a 
scrap more selfish than most other people—only you’ve 
discovered it and they haven’t.” 

He asked me how long I was staying at Elmstree and I 
told him I didn’t know—that I had no definite plans for 
the future. 

“It’s the war,” I explained, and smiled at the thread¬ 
bare phrase. “It seems to have upset everything, even 
one’s way of thinking. The whole world seems to be 
standing still and marking time. I did wonder whether 
—perhaps—I might start another book. I haven’t writ¬ 
ten anything for two years.” 

We talked for a while about literature in general and 
the probable effect which the war would have upon it. 

“In some ways, a rather crude, elemental sort of way, 
it seems to be stimulating it,” he said. “Look at these 
poems of Rupert Brooke for instance! But I can’t help 
feeling that it’s a false stimulant, that it’ll degenerate into 
mere sensationalism—and then fizzle out. We’re too 
close to it—we shall be too close to it for years after it’s 
over for it to find its true expression in the art of the 
nation. In my opinion all wars invariably tend to drag 
mankind back into barbarism. We shall never begin to 
be really civilized until the recurrence of such a state of 
affairs as we are now living in has been made utterly 


SPILLED WINE 


296 

impossible—I don’t know how it’s going to be done, but 
I feel sure that one day it will be.” 

He talked on for a while in this strain and I listened, 
fascinated more by his manner, the tones of his voice, 
the play of his expression, than by what he was actually 
saying. And presently we entered the large iron gates 
leading to Selbourn Hall and began a slow progress up 
the half-mile drive that curved in a sweeping ascendancy 
between stately oak trees whose yellowing leaves had an 
almost flamboyant appearance in the bright sunlight. 

My first glimpse of the Hall itself drew from me a gasp 
of delighted appreciation. It was a low-built picturesque 
mansion of whitish stone that stood out with an arresting 
simplicity against a background of autumn-tinted foliage. 
It had a distinctly Italian atmosphere. It suggested ro¬ 
mance—the languorous loveliness of southern climes, of 
blue skies, of exotic, brightly coloured flowers. Some¬ 
thing about the arrangement of its portico, the almost 
level line of its roof, reminded me forcibly of certain vil¬ 
las I had seen on the outskirts of Rome and Florence. It 
had none of the conventional stiffness of many English 
country houses. One felt at once that it would be a de¬ 
lightful place to live in. 

As we neared a low flight of steps leading up to the 
veranda, I became aware of a beautiful woman lying 
full-length upon an invalid’s chair. She raised herself 
upon one arm, smiling a welcome as we approached, and 
a moment later Mr. Carstairs had introduced us. 

“This,” he said as he bent affectionately above the 
lovely upturned face, “is my friend, Miss Fielding. And 
this”—turning again toward me—“is my sister.” 

As I went forward and took the sick girl’s frail white 


SPILLED WINE 


297 

hand in mine, looking down into eyes of limpid forget- 
me-not blue, a sudden wave of sympathetic understanding 
seemed to pass between us. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said gently. “Ever 
since my brother told me about you last night I 7 ve been 
looking forward to this pleasure.” 

“It’s very kind of you to say so,” I stammered. 

“It’s very kind of you to have come. I’m a confirmed 
invalid, as you see; I don’t get the opportunity of receiv¬ 
ing many visitors.” With one slim hand she indicated a 
chair beside her. “Won’t you please sit down. It’s 
quite warm here in the sun. I’m making the most of the 
fine days that remain to us. Before the war I always 
went abroad about the end of September. Now of course 
that is impossible.” 

I took the chair she offered and we began to talk of 
foreign places that we had both visited. And from that 
the conversation drifted into ever-broadening and diverg¬ 
ing channels of interest. 

I found that Miss Carstairs had read all my novels and 
was eager to talk to me about them, to offer me the meed 
of her generous praise. 

“I think your ‘Bridge of Mist’ a wonderful book,” she 
told me graciously. “It seems incredible to me that so 
young a girl could have written anything so profoundly 
true, so bravely candid—and so beautiful. In spite of 
what my brother has told me about you I had expected 
to find you much older. You must have a very wide 
knowledge of the world and of human nature, but it has 
not set the stamp upon you one would expect to find. 
I’m a great reader—being an invalid there are so few 
other recreations I can indulge in—and it gives me great 


SPILLED WINE 


298 

pleasure to be able to meet you and to thank you per¬ 
sonally for the enjoyment your books have given me. I 
think writing the most wonderful profession in the world. 
It has a greater influence upon the moulding of civiliza¬ 
tion than any other art.” 

I thanked her for her praise. None other, not even 
that of Mr. Carstairs himself, nor the long-ago boyish 
enthusiasm of Terry, had ever caused me such a deep 
feeling of gratification. 

“You’re very kind—and much too generous. I’m sure 
I don’t deserve one-half of what you’ve said,” I faltered. 
“But it’s very nice to hear people say that they enjoy 
things one has written.” 

She nodded, and her eyes, like rain-washed blue 
flowers, smiled at me very kindly. 

“I can understand that,” she said. “I have no creative 
power myself, but I think I can appreciate an artist’s 
point of view.” 

After lunch, which was served in an oblong dining-hall 
hung with gilt-framed mirrors and panelled with several 
species of some beautifully grained wood, Mr. Carstairs 
showed me over the grounds. 

There was an Italian garden, a Dutch garden and an 
old English rose-garden—each created to satisfy the per¬ 
sonal whim of some dead and gone Carstairs—the park 
with its wonderful oaks and beeches and herds of dappled 
deer, the tennis courts, the kitchen gardens, the stables 
and the kennels—now sadly depleted by the exigencies 
of war—and last but not least, the small model dairy 
farm that somehow reminded me of Marie Antoinette’s 
toy village at Versailles. 


SPILLED WINE 


299 


To me it was all very wonderful. I had read of such 
places. I had never hoped to become intimately ac¬ 
quainted with one. 

“How proud you must be of it all!” I exclaimed with 
eager enthusiasm. “It’s like a kingdom in miniature. 
Don’t you ever feel as though you were a sort of un¬ 
crowned monarch?” 

My companion paused in the act of holding open a 
gate for me to pass through, and stood smiling indulgently 
down at me. 

“I can’t say that I’ve ever thought of it like that,” he 
replied slowly. “Perhaps it’s a case of familiarity breed¬ 
ing—well, not contempt, but shall we say a certain blunt¬ 
ing of the imagination? And it entails responsibility, 
you know, as well as pleasures.” 

“Of course. But it’s worth it. It’s well worth it. If 
it were mine-” 

“Yes?” 

“I should be very happy. I should just roam about 
every day thrilling over it, loving every bit of it.” 

“Until the novelty wore off, perhaps.” 

“No, no. Always!” 

“What about your writing?” 

“I don’t see what difference it could make to that.” 

“It probably would.” 

“Why?” 

“No man can serve two masters! You know the idea? 
Either you’d get tired of—of this—after a while, or you’d 
neglect your work. I’ve sometimes wondered whether 
that’s the reason nearly all great artists are born poor.” 

I considered the point for a moment; then: 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. 



3 oo SPILLED WINE 

He laughed, letting the gate swing to behind us with a 
little clatter. 

“You see,” he said, “we each have our own personal 
kingdom. Your pen is yours. This,” with a sweeping 
wave of the arm, “is mine. A shoe-black has his. No 
doubt each has a satisfaction peculiar to itself. It’s a 
case of relative values.” 

As we walked back across a small paddock in which 
half a dozen Jersey heifers were peacefully grazing, I 
found myself regarding him closely—his fine, broad- 
shouldered figure, the clean firm moulding of his features, 
the general air of muscular fitness which his lameness 
seemed merely to emphasize. And suddenly it occurred 
to me that it would have been difficult to have selected 
a more pleasing specimen of the human race. I had 
not realized before that he was so good to look at. 

When we got back to the Hall, tea was already laid 
out in a small, bay-windowed room, looking south-west 
over the Italian garden. It was a very pretty room, 
carried out in the style of a seventeenth-century Venetian 
salon. Such portions of the wall as were not panelled 
with rich tapestry were coloured a clear pale yellow and 
hung with Italian water-colour sketches of exceptional 
beauty. 

Anthea Carstairs, wrapped in a loose tea-gown of 
wedgwood blue, interwoven with threads of pale gold, 
lay in her chair by the window in such a position that 
the last rays of the sinking sun fell full upon her. As 
we came in at the door she turned her head slowly to¬ 
wards us and her pale, rather sad face lit up into a wel¬ 
coming smile. 


SPILLED WINE 301 

“I hope you’ve had a pleasant afternoon?” she inquired 
gently. 

“It’s been wonderful—a revelation! ” I declared en¬ 
thusiastically, and moving over to the side of her chaise 
longue I stood with flushed cheeks looking down into her 
pretty blue eyes. “I never imagined anything that any¬ 
one really owned could be so delightful1” 

“Then you must come and see it again,” she said. 
“Come as often as you like. We shall be so pleased if 
you will.” 

“Thank you,” I said. “I should love to.” 

Over tea I found myself talking to these two new 
friends with an ease that surprised and delighted me. As 
the warm flush of sunset stole into the room, a great hap¬ 
piness stole also into my heart, a feeling of romance, of 
artistic refinement, of exquisite harmony. 

When the time came for me to say good-bye, my hostess 
held both my hands warmly in her own, repeating her 
invitation for me to come again. 

“I’m afraid I’m rather dull company,” she apologized. 
“I see so few people nowadays. But I shall esteem it a 
great kindness if you will come.” 

And suddenly, moved by an irresistible impulse, I bent 
and kissed her pale cheek as I promised. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


T HAT first visit to Selbourn Hall marked the begin¬ 
ning of a new era for me. In the days that fol¬ 
lowed I spent many happy hours in the company of my 
new friends. Sometimes I would sit and talk with An- 
thea in her pretty boudoir, sometimes I would accom¬ 
pany Mr. Carstairs upon a journey of inspection to some 
outlying part of the estate, and frequently, while the 
weather remained warm enough, we would all three drive 
out together in an open carriage. 

With what a tender recollection I look back upon that 
period of maturing autumn days, of sunshine that was 
like a mild and mellow wine, of gently fading leaves and 
skies that were alternately crisp and hazy—a period when 
all nature seemed to fall into a reverential hush, to shed 
her glory with an effect of wistful, lingering regret. 

I felt like a ship which, having been buffeted violently 
from port to port, drifts at length into the calm bosom 
of a sheltering harbour. 

About the middle of October the fine weather broke 
up into a succession of heavy rain-storms and the drives 
had to be discontinued. Then, at the end of a fortnight, 
it suddenly turned dry and frosty and Mr. Carstairs and 
I fell into the habit of going for long walks together. 

By now his foot was almost well again. With the aid 
of a stick he could walk two or three miles without much 
effort and with scarcely a perceptible limp. 

302 


SPILLED WINE 


303 

“By the spring I hope to be able to ride again/’ he 
told me. “I miss the feel of a horse between my knees. 
It’s been one of my greatest pleasures since I was a child. 
Do you ride at all?” 

“I used to—once,” I answered and stopped short, 
overcome by a sudden recollection of that last ride with 
Terry. “I don’t know whether I should care for it 
again.” 

December came and still nothing happened to disturb 
the serenity of my existence. I grew to love Anthea with 
the tender affection of a sister, while for Mr. Carstairs I 
entertained a feeling of comradeship that grew deeper 
and more satisfying with every day that passed. I came 
to think of him as my embodied ideal of perfect man¬ 
hood. He was strong yet very gentle, kind yet very firm, 
just yet full of a sympathetic compassion for the faults 
and failings of others. Often when he stopped to reprove 
a workman for some breach of duty, to inquire after the 
health of an ailing wife or caress the head of a child, 
I would find myself watching the expression of his face 
with an almost reverential awe. In such moments the 
thought would come to me, “King Arthur and his Knights 
of the Round Table must have been just such men as he.” 

And thinking thus the wonder grew in me that he was 
not married. 

“Many women must have loved him,” I told myself. 
“How could it be otherwise? He has the power of at¬ 
tracting love as a magnet attracts steel. I cannot imag¬ 
ine the woman who would refuse him.” 

Sometimes I dreamed of the sort of children he might 
have, the super sons and daughters any woman might be 
proud to bear him. “It would be a sin for him not to 


3 04 SPILLED WINE 

marry,” I thought, “to leave no son behind him when 
he dies!” 

One day, in the course of conversation, the subject 
came up between us. 

“There is a reason, of course, why I have never mar¬ 
ried,” he told me and then, after a long pause, he went 
on, “when I was very young—nineteen to be exact—I 
fell in love. I thought her the most wonderful creation 
on God’s earth . . . and she married another man. As 
time went on I came to realize—events proved to me— 
that she was not the ideal woman I had thought her to 
be. But it was years before I could forget her—blot out 
the impression she had left upon me. I suppose the— 
the experience left me with a sort of haunting fear of a 
repetition. I realized that falling in love was like play¬ 
ing with fire. It could hurt so damnably! And I hap¬ 
pen to be one of those people who cannot content them¬ 
selves with substitutes—with anything less than the high¬ 
est they are capable of realizing. To me marriage must 
be the consummation of the most perfect type of human 
love—or it is useless. . . . Eleven years went by before 
another woman broke through the—the sort of armour I 
had built up about myself . . . and then ... I lost 
her, almost in the moment of finding her! ... It was 
like standing on a mountain in Norway and seeing the 
sun rise only to sink again immediately. Before I real¬ 
ized she was there—she was gone. . . . Since then— 
well, I haven’t thought about the matter. I’ve just— 
drifted.” 

Something about the way he told me this created a 
strange feeling of increased intimacy between us, as 



SPILLED WINE 305 

though he had deliberately unveiled to me the most secret 
corner of his heart. 

It strengthened my deepening consciousness of im¬ 
mense emotional reserves underlying the outward calm 
of his almost abnormal self-possession. It made me also, 
for the first time, a little afraid of him. 

And so the weeks slipped by. Almost before I was 
aware of it the old year had given place to the new. The 
first vague hint of spring had crept into the cold heart of 
winter. 

Looking back I find it difficult to trace the stages by 
which Adrian Carstairs and myself passed from the con¬ 
dition of friends to that of unavowed, vaguely self-con¬ 
scious lovers. Day by day we seemed to draw ever a 
little nearer and a little nearer in the bond of a comrade¬ 
ship so complete and harmonious that the manner of its 
growth passed unnoticed in a mood of rapturous content. 
Day by day I seemed to find in him some new quality 
to admire, something that filled me with a great gladness, 
an overwhelming pride. That such a man should have 
chosen me for his friend inspired me with a never-ending 
wonderment. A feeling of strange humility grew up in 
me, a consciousness of my own unworthiness. Like a 
sunrise in a desert my love for Adrian—which as yet I did 
not recognize as love—embraced my every waking and 
sleeping thought. Emotions that had seemed dead woke 
to a new life. The thrill of earliest youth came back to 
me. And with it came something I had never experienced 
before—a tenderness so intolerably sweet that at times it 
was almost a pain, a longing to make sacrifices, to kneel 
in the dust, to utterly obliterate my own ego in the service 
of another. 


SPILLED WINE 


306 

One afternoon at the very end of March we walked 
slowly side by side through the beechwood that bounded 
the eastern side of the estate. Winter still held a nom¬ 
inal sway over the slow pulse of nature. Twigs snapped 
with frost beneath our feet; a clammy dampness oozed 
out of the grey boles of the trees; the birds were silent, 
save for an occasional trial note that raised startled 
echoes along the leafless aisles. From somewhere near 
at hand drifted the acrid scent of burning wood; the sky, 
glimpsed in ragged patches overhead, was very clear and 
almost colourless; yet every once in a while we came 
upon odd clumps of primroses struggling bravely up out 
of the damp moss, and sometimes a stray violet, a crows- 
foot, the pink bud of an anemone. 

“Things seem to be rather backward this year,” Adrian 
commented as we walked leisurely along, our feet rustling 
faintly in the thick bed of last year’s leafage. “A few 
days of real warmth would make a wonderful difference. 
Look at those buds! They’re all on the point of burst¬ 
ing!” And he pointed with his stick to the low-hanging 
branches of a tree. “I always think this moment, when 
spring seems to be waiting on tiptoe just over the thresh¬ 
old as it were, the most fascinating of the year. It fills 
one with a sort of new hopefulness, a sense of anticipa¬ 
tion. One can almost feel the power that’s trying to 
break through.” 

I nodded agreement. His way of putting things al¬ 
ways pleased me. He could be poetic without being ex¬ 
aggerated. It sometimes seemed to me that he had a 
woman’s way of looking at things. 

Presently we sat down on the fallen trunk of a tree 


SPILLED WINE 307 

and insensibly our talk drifted on to the subject of the 
future. 

“My foot’s practically well now,” he told me. “I shall 
have to see about getting back into harness again. As a 
matter of fact I had a letter from the War Office this 
morning asking me to present myself for medical re¬ 
examination.” 

At this sudden reminder of the war and of the fact 
that he was still an undischarged officer in His Majesty’s 
Forces, a feeling of intangible dread swept over me. 
Until that moment I had not thought about the matter. 
I had taken it for granted that he would never be required 
to fight again. Now, in a flash the whole edifice of my 
dreams seemed to be tumbling about me like a pack of 
cards. I sat still, crushed, bewildered, as though some 
part of my brain had suddenly become paralysed. Then: 

“I—I thought—I always took it for granted—that you 
wouldn’t be wanted any more,” I stammered unsteadily. 

He broke a piece of lichen-covered bark from the trunk 
upon which we sat and stared gravely away into the 
smoky-blue distance, between the serried rows of stately 
beech trees. 

“So did I,” he replied. “For one thing I never thought 
the war would last so long. But of course—if they want 


“But—you don’t mean—soon?” 

He turned his head and looked with a sort of search¬ 
ing sadness into my eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “It all depends upon the 
medical report. They may give me another month or 
two, or postpone it indefinitely—or they might, of course, 
draft me out again, fairly soon. One can’t say.” 



SPILLED WINE 


308 

“I—I see.” 

“Things seem to be working up to a climax. They’ll 
want all the men they can get this spring. And of course 
there isn’t much wrong with my foot now.” 

“N—no. You—you certainly walk much better. One 
scarcely notices anything.” 

“And at times like this they can’t afford to be too par¬ 
ticular.” 

“No, I suppose not.” 

And then, for all our brave attempts to make light of 
the matter, a sudden deadly silence fell over us. 

The bare possibility of his going on active service 
again, going back into danger, possibly to death, caused 
my very soul to thrill with horror. I had never seriously 
faced the fact of our eventual parting, the breaking up of 
the wonderful friendship which by now had sent its roots 
down into the deepest fibres of my being, that seemed to 
have existed for years instead of only for months. I 
could not picture a future in which he had no part. 

And suddenly, as we sat there together in the chilly 
silence of the wood, I realized that I loved him! It was 
a different love from that which I had felt for Terry. It 
held the same exquisite excitement, the same amazement 
and wonder and delight, but instead of a feeling of weak¬ 
ness it flooded me with an extraordinary consciousness 
of strength. In place of the recklessness, the blind, un¬ 
balanced passion of the very young girl in love for the 
first time, came the all-embracing tenderness, the mighty 
clearness of vision of the woman who has battled to 
knowledge, to a true appreciation of human worth, along 
the thorny road of experience. 


SPILLED WINE 


309 

Looking down at the hand that plucked restlessly at 
the lichen-covered bark, I said quietly: 

“If you go—I shall miss you.” 

Instantly the plucking ceased. Raising his head he 
looked me full in the eyes. His mouth seemed to move 
dumbly once or twice; then: 

“Do you mean that?” he questioned, his voice husky 
and strained with emotion. “Will you miss me—for 
myself?” 

I nodded. 

Very gently, very slowly, giving me ample opportunity 
to have resisted had I desired, he took my two hands in 
his, placed the palms together and drew them towards 
him until the fingers touched his breast, until I could feel 
his heart beating in great hammer blows against their 
tips. 

“Ann, dear,” he said, “these last six months have been 
wonderful months to me, the most wonderful I have ever 
known. I wonder—what they have meant to you? . . . 
I’m thirty-seven and you are twenty-six, and all the time 
—from the first moment I found you sitting upon that 
stile watching the sunset—I have been asking myself 
whether I had any right to make love to you, whether you 
could ever possibly come to care for me—in the way I 
care for you. You see I’m greedy. I want so much—your 
very soul—the very utmost you can give me, or else just 
your sweet friendship and nothing more. And at first I 
was afraid to risk it. I was terribly afraid! You can’t un¬ 
derstand. ... I can’t explain! It was my last hope 
of happiness. . . . And then, this morning, I knew I’d 
have to tell you. The bare possibility of being parted 
from you was too much to be borne—without first having 


3io 


SPILLED WINE 


told you something of all that is locked up here in my 
heart. . . . Little Ann! My darling! I love you! I 
love you so much that I would give anything in the world 
to make you my wife. Without you I can’t think of the 
future—I daren’t!” 

He broke off for a moment, his whole expression 
strained with anxiety, his blue eyes filled with a desper¬ 
ate pleading. Then he went on again. 

“Tell me you understand, that by saying this I haven’t 
losf you altogether? Our friendship was so wonderful 
—tell me I haven’t spoilt it?” 

The obvious sincerity of his humility amazed me. 
That he should tell me—me!—that he loved me, that he 
wanted to marry me, and in the next breath confess his 
fear of being repulsed, seemed beyond belief. How tre¬ 
mendously he must care! To what a high pedestal of 
honour he must have raised me! 

Looking into his eyes the material world about me 
seemed to fade into a swirling mist of wonder. My heart 
beat like a mad thing in my breast. I felt suddenly 
crazed with triumph, drunk with gladness. I was on the 
point of slipping forward into his arms, of confessing 
my love for him with the fullness of complete surrender, 
when abruptly, with a shattering, paralysing effect, I re¬ 
membered the past. 

I remembered that night in Paris six years before; I 
smelt the hot, scented atmosphere of le Bal Bouillier; I 
saw the painted faces of courtesans, the eager luring eyes 
of Gustave. ... I felt the hot touch of his fingers upon 
my wrist! ... A shudder passed over me, a shudder 
of intense nostalgia, a feeling of actual physical sickness. 
. . . The scene faded and in its place came the merry, 


SPILLED WINE 


3 i 1 

laughing face of Terry. . . . The beautiful, god-like 
limbs I had so madly worshipped! . . . 

Horror crept over me and a sort of clammy sweat. I 
tried to drag my hands away from Adrian’s. I felt my 
flesh creep under his gentle touch. 

“Please! Oh please!” I cried in the sudden pain of 
my distress. “You bewilder me! You—you must give 
me time to think.” 

“Of course!” 

He released me instantly and I saw a queer, shuttered 
look come over his face. If he had been a woman I 
should have called it a look of intuition; I should have 
thought he had guessed something of the struggle that 
was going on in my mind. A moment later he turned his 
head away from me and went on: 

“I’m afraid I’ve startled you. There’s no reason why 
you should love me, though I have always loved you— 
always.” 

In spite of my agitation the tones of his voice arrested 
me. They gave me a curious impression of meaning more 
than they said. 

“You mean—ever since we’ve been here together?” I 
found myself saying. 

“No, ever since I have known you—exactly seven 
years,” he answered. 

“But how is that possible?” 

“I fell in love with you on the boat going to France 
and the memory of you remained with me, unchanged, 
until that moment when I saw you again last autumn.” 

“But-” 

“It is quite true. Do you doubt me? I told you once 
how I had only loved two women in my life, how the first 



SPILLED WINE 


3 12 

married another man and how I lost the second almost 
in the moment of finding her. That one was you! You 
made a most vivid impression on me—that day on the 
boat deck. You were so young, so full of life, so charged 
with hope and the longing to achieve! You took hold of 
my imagination in a way I can’t explain—I never could 
explain it to myself—but it was not until you had gone, 
until the streets of Paris had swallowed you up that raw 
January evening, that I realized I had fallen in love with 
you—and also that I had lost you. You had given me 
no address, no name even—and you were gone! ... I 
ran through the streets after your cab. People must have 
thought me mad. And I was mad, mad to get to you 
again, to keep you, never to let you go. . . . But I 
couldn’t find you. ... For five days I stayed behind in 
Paris—without luggage, that had all gone on—and I 
hunted high and low for you. But I had nothing to go 
upon and at length I had to give it up and continue my 
journey to Florence. On my way back from Egypt the 
following March I stopped again in Paris for nearly three 
weeks—and every day I looked for you. Once I felt cer¬ 
tain I saw you go into a theatre and I hung about until 
the performance was over and the audience came out— 
but it wasn’t you. And finally I gave up searching. But 
I always had the feeling that some day, somehow, we 
should meet again. And when I found you that evening 
on the stile I knew that Fate had rewarded me at last. 
So strong was this feeling that it seemed to me you must 
have guessed—even in that first moment—all that the 
memory of you had been to me.” 

While he talked a great amazement grew up in me. 

I felt as though I were listening to the recital of some 


SPILLED WINE 


3i3 

very wonderful love story that could not have any pos¬ 
sible reference to myself. That the raw, unsophisticated 
“Ann Fielding” of seven years before could have inspired, 
in the course of a few hours’ conversation such undying 
devotion in such a man as Adrian Carstairs seemed im¬ 
possible to conceive. 

If only I had told him my name and address! If only 
Fate had been a little kinder, how different my whole 
life might have been! Then I should have had nothing 
to regret; there would have been no secret barrier of 
guilt dividing us. In Adrian’s arms I should have gained 
my first, my only knowledge of man’s love, a love that 
held no base dregs of bitterness and self-disgust. 

A great sadness enfolded me, a sense of unutterable 
regret. With the cup of happiness so near my lips I knew 
that I had no right to drink. The love of a clean man, 
the honour of his name were being offered to me; how 
could I accept with such memories of the past tarnishing 
my own? 

“I—it’s wonderful—all you’ve just told me,” I faltered. 
“It doesn’t seem possible it can be true. I don’t know 
what you could have seen in me—a little raw school¬ 
girl. . . 

“My darling, I saw you, the real you! That was 
enough. And I think I realized all the possibilities of 
your undeveloped character. I knew you were no or¬ 
dinary girl, that you would grow up into a very wonderful, 

adorable woman, that-” 

“No, no, don’t! Please don’t!” I cried, stung into a 

sudden shamed protest. “It’s not true—all that. You 
don’t know the real me. I'm not what you think!” 



314 


SPILLED WINE 


He tried again to take my hands, but I moved them out 
of his reach and he did not persist. 

“To me it’s true,” he said. “And I know you far 
better than you think. Do you imagine I’ve been blind 
all these months? Oh, my darling, my dear, dear little 
Ann, be gentle with me, be kind. You mean everything 
in the world to me.” 

His voice almost broke on a note of pleading and all 
my love for him, a love that was almost maternal in its 
tender solicitude, made me long to caress him, to satisfy 
the aching hunger of his heart. 

“Why undeceive him? Why not put the past behind 
you and forget it?” a voice prompted within me and 
the temptation was so strong that for a moment I felt 
almost faint under the pain of resistance. But in the 
end the better part of me, the part which Adrian’s trust 
in me, his reverence, his humility, had called into being, 
conquered. “No, no!” it protested. “That would not be 
fair. That would not be honourable. He must know ex¬ 
actly the sort of bargain he is making.” 

My one predominating idea was to gain time, to escape 
from the seductive provocation of his physical presence— 
which each moment was affecting me more and more 
strongly—and to think the matter out. 

“I—I—you mustn’t think me ungrateful—if I ask 
you to give me time,” I said. “I’m not indifferent to all 
you’ve said. To me it—it seems very wonderful—and 
beautiful . . . but . . . you see ... up to now I have 
always thought of you as a friend only—at least I think 
I have. ... I want to be quite honest. I have certainly 
never contemplated marrying you. For one thing your 
position. You see I—I’m nobody, absolutely nobody I 


SPILLED WINE 


3i5 

It would be impossible to be of more insignificant birth! 
Don’t you think you—you owe it to your family to marry 
some one more worthy than myself?” 

“That,” he declared emphatically, “would be impos¬ 
sible, quite impossible. How can you suggest such a 
thing—after all I’ve told you?” 

Turning towards me he placed both hands upon my 
shoulders, compelling me to look into his eyes. 

“Ann, little girl,” he pleaded, “why do you torture me 
like this?—put me off with excuses that are no excuses?” 

I felt a hot, painful colour flare up into my cheeks. 
I would have given worlds to have hidden my face from 
his gaze. 

“Perhaps there are—other reasons,” I said. 

“Then tell them to me—if you wish. They cannot be 
anything that would shake my faith in you or my desire 
to marry you.” 

“How do you know?” 

“My darling, how does one know that the sun will rise 
to-morrow? Be satisfied that I do know.” 

I hesitated; then: 

“It’s difficult—to explain—in a moment,” I protested. 
“You must give me time—let me think it over. I prom¬ 
ise to be quite frank with you. I want to prove that my 
faith and trust in you are at least equal to yours in me. 
Will you give me—a little time?” 

“Of course. I hardly expected an answer at once.” 

Then, with his hands still on my shoulders, he pulled 
me gently towards him, his eyes searching mine until 
their blueness seemed to dazzle me, seemed to run like 
sparks of an electric current through every fibre of my 
trembling body. 


SPILLED WINE 


316 

“Only tell me,” he begged, his voice dropping suddenly 
to the soft wooing note of passionate appeal, “only tell 
me, before I let you go, that you care a little, that you 
aren’t altogether indifferent!” 

Indifferent! My heart gave a great cry that echoed 
itself in my throat with a sort of strangled sob. The 
nearness of his dear face, the pleading of his eyes, the 
warm breath of his lips on my cheeks, the firm clasp of 
his hands on my shoulders—all these things combined 
suddenly to break down the tottering barrier of my resist¬ 
ance. With a little, pitiful cry of weakness my head 
fell forward upon his breast. 

“Can’t you see? Can’t you see?” I whispered. 

And then I was in his arms and the world had melted 
away under the sweet madness of his lips. A delirium 
of joy shot through me. I had a feeling, as I lay quite 
still in his arms, every nerve throbbing and leaping under 
the passionate stimulus of his embrace, that his lips were 
kissing away all those other kisses that belonged to the 
past, that my body was once more the body of a virgin 
yielding for the first time to a lover’s caress. 

We walked very silently out of the wood and along 
a path that led down by a short cut to the river and to 
“Brill-Ray.” Hand in hand, like two children, we went 
and we said nothing at all. 

A wild confusion was in my mind. I knew that I had 
done wrong, that I had irrevocably betrayed Adrian, that 
I had yielded to him under false pretences. But equally 
I knew that no power on earth could have prevented me 
from doing what I had done. 

“To-morrow I will confess everything—but I must 


SPILLED WINE 


317 

have time to think,” I told myself over and over again. 
“It all happened so unexpectedly. It wasn’t really' fair.” 

As Adrian opened the orchard gate for me, he said, 
with a new air of protectorship that brought a rush of 
tender appreciation to my heart: 

“Good night, darling! Go to bed early—and don’t 
worry your little head about imaginary difficulties. The 
future is in my hands and I am going to look after you. 
Take as long as ever you like to think about anything 
you want to—but remember you belong to me now! 
Nothing will ever alter that. Nothing can ever change 
my love for you. Good night and God bless you!” 

The gate swung to with a creak and for a moment he 
stood holding my hand above its wooden spikes. Again 
I had an uncanny feeling that he had read my thoughts. 
I was glad that the rapidly falling dusk prevented him 
from seeing the new flame of self-conscious guilt that 
leapt up into my cheeks. 

Without a word I left him and hurried into the cottage. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


LL night I lay and wrestled with the problem of 



whether the past should remain buried for ever, 
whether I should take this great gift the gods had sent 
me in silence and thankfulness, or whether I must con¬ 
fess everything to the man who had asked me to marry 


him. 


What had at first seemed a perfectly clear issue grew 
more and more confused as the hours wore on. A thou¬ 
sand subtle reasons why I should keep silent presented 
themselves to my mind. Adrian loved me now and I 
loved him. Did it really matter what had happened to 
me in the interval between our first and second meetings? 
Should I make him a less satisfactory wife on account of 
the experiences that had come to me during those fateful 
six years? Should I not rather value him the more? 
But would he understand that this might be so? He 
thought so highly of me, he honoured me so much, could 
I, ought I, to risk shattering such an ideal? Even if, 
having learnt everything, he did not cease to love me, 
could things ever be quite the same between us? Should 
we ever be really happy? 

But again and again came the answer: 

“He is straight. He is absolutely honourable. He 
trusts you utterly. With another man such a deception 
might be permissible but not with Adrian. He is offering 
so much, the most wonderful gift in all the world. You 
will be the mother of his sons, those super-children you 


318 


SPILLED WINE 


3 i 9 

have dreamed about. Dare you accept all this without 
first being quite honest with him?” 

Once the thought occurred to me, “You never thought 
it necessary to tell Terry about Gustave!” And then I 
realized more conclusively than ever how different was 
my love for Adrian than had been my love for Terry, on 
how much higher and nobler a plane. Although I had 
not been aware of it at the time, I knew now that my love 
for the latter had been almost wholly of the senses. I 
had loved him for his material qualities more than for 
his moral worth. My admiration had been all for his 
physical excellence, for his youth and strength and fear¬ 
lessness, his ardour, his careless good humour. I had 
asked no more of him than that he should satisfy the 
overwhelming passion that he had aroused in me. I had 
not honoured him as I honoured Adrian. 

The memory of Gustave brought me nothing but 
shame. I could find no single excuse beyond the wild 
urge of youth, the promptings of curiosity, my desire for 
knowledge at all costs. Even if Adrian understood and 
forgave my love for Terry, could he ever understand, 
could he ever forgive, the brief madness of my liaison with 
Gustave? Would he not see in it the expression of some 
fundamental streak of hidden viciousness? 

From side to side of the bed I tossed and turned seek¬ 
ing an answer to this question, the most vital of all. The 
first hint of dawn was already stealing in at the window 
before I came finally to the resolve that, whatever might 
be the result, I would make a clean breast of everything. 

Then I turned over on my pillow and fell asleep. 

I had been asleep for some hours when Nanny came 


320 


SPILLED WINE 


in and woke me. She was carrying a note in her hand 
and when she saw my obvious drowsiness she apologized 
for disturbing me. 

“I thought you’d be awake, dearie,” she said. “It’s 
getting on for ten o’clock. The boy from the Hall’s just 
brought this along. I thought it might be something 
partic’lar.” And she handed me an envelope addressed 
in Adrian’s writing. 

The moment she had left the room I tore it open with 
feverish haste. 

“I’m going up to London by an early train,” he wrote. 
“It’s about the medical examination I told you of. I 
thought I’d like to get it over as soon as possible. I had 
intended to come and say good-bye to you, but it has 
occurred to me that I should probably find you still in 
bed. ... I may return to-morrow evening, or failing 
that early on Thursday morning. This should give you 
ample time to Think over’ anything you want to entirely 
undisturbed. . . . Sweetheart mine, I send you all my 
love and if you don’t know how much that is you soon 
will. I went to sleep dreaming of your kisses! . . . It’s 
rather a jolly sort of morning. There’s actually a bird 
singing under my window as I write this—and it’s not 
properly light yet. I believe spring’s really coming at 
last! God’s in his heaven, etc.! ... I shall take the 
opportunity of choosing a ring while I am in town.” 

When I had read it through twice I lay back in the bed 
and stared hard at the ceiling. 

I had counted upon seeing Adrian that morning, of 
putting myself as soon as possible out of the agony of 
suspense I was suffering. The discovery that he had 
suddenly been removed miles out of my reach, came upon 


SPILLED WINE 


321 

me like a blow. Another two days at least must be got 
through before I could put my fate to the test, unburden 
my mind of a corroding anxiety. 

All manner of absurd ideas began to crowd into my 
brain. Suppose they were to pass him for immediate 
service again? Supposing an accident happened to the 
train he was travelling in? Supposing he were killed and 
I never saw him again? Of course it was ridiculous, be¬ 
yond the realms of wildest possibility—but supposing? 

With a feverish haste I got out of bed and began to 
dress myself. My whole brain seemed on fire, tormented 
by a host of crazy, terrifying doubts. Why hadn’t I 
told him last night? Why had I let him go away like 
this—with nothing settled? Was my happiness once 
more to be frustrated by some sinister design of Fate? 

Without even a pretence of eating the breakfast which 
Nanny had carefully kept warm for me, I went out into 
the orchard and began to wander aimlessly about under 
the gnarled branches of the apple trees, all unconscious 
of the bright spring sunlight, the chirping birds, the 
opening fruit buds around me. 

An indescribable anxiety possessed me. The blood 
beat in my temples like the blood of a drowning person. 
I could not think coherently. My brain had lost the 
power to reason, to fight the foolish fears that closed 
upon me like a swarm of evil phantoms. 

After a while I went out through the little wooden 
gate over which I had said “good night” to Adrian the 
previous evening and began to walk along by the side of 
the stream. It was swollen with the winter’s rain and 
ran a muddy, turbulent flood, between its ragged banks. 
Sometimes it gurgled like water running out of a bottle; 


SPILLED WINE 


3 22 

sometimes it made a faint tinkle like the sound of minute 
silver bells; sometimes it seemed to laugh at me, to mock 
my pain with little cries of careless merriment. 

I came presently to the spot where I had first watched 
Terry catch a trout. I remembered every detail of the 
scene, the boy’s eager face, his graceful, kneeling body, 
the silver glitter of the fish as it lay all wet and quivering 
on the grass. And later on I came to the pool, screened 
by a group of pollard willows, where I had watched him 
bathe. Again, in fancy, I could see his milk-white body 
darting and swimming and somersaulting in the limpid 
green water and I thought how strange it was that a 
memory which once had moved me so profoundly now 
left me absolutely cold! 

Standing there in the chilly freshness of the spring 
morning the fancy came to me that perhaps, after all, 
Terry and everything connected with him had been no 
more than a dream, an invention of my imagination, 
and Gustave no more than the grotesque figure of some 
evil nightmare. Indeed the whole past, even the years 
of my childhood—that dark, poky little shop in the 
Portobello Road, those secret moonlit hours with Alma 
in the bedroom at Kingsmead, those lovely days among 
the Surrey hills with Martin—all, all of it seemed sud¬ 
denly to slip away into the mists of unreality. Only 
Adrian was real! Only Adrian mattered! And now he 
was gone from me and I was alone, alone in the stillness 
of a March morning wondering how I should face life if 
by chance he never came back to me. 

Again the possibility of accidents thrust itself insid¬ 
iously into my mind. I found myself picturing a collision 
in the London streets. I saw my darling lying crushed 


SPILLED WINE 


323 

and dead before me, and a sort of blindness came over 
me, a feeling of eternal night. . . . 

When my vision cleared I discovered, with a sudden 
shock, that my random steps had brought me to the 
beginning of the sunken bridle-path, that I was standing 
quite close to the spot upon which I had found the still 
body of Terry six years before. To my startled eyes a 
dark stain as of blood marked the ground where the horse 
had flung him and with a strangled shriek I covered my 
face with my hands and ran wildly from the spot—ran 
on and on until at length I sank down exhausted upon 
the damp earth. 

All through the rest of the day and the next I could 
not rid of myself of an uncanny prescience of evil. Each 
hour seemed stretched to an eternity, crammed with 
nameless terrors and dismays. All night long I walked 
the floor of my room like some caged beast or sat help¬ 
lessly upon the edge of the bed, alternately reasoning 
with myself over the folly of my behaviour and falling 
into fits of shivering ague. 

One thought and one alone was fixed in my mind. I 
was being punished—punished for all the heartless 
egotism of the past. Deliberately I recalled each separate 
phase of my life. I thought of my mother! How hard I 
had been—and how unloving! Martin! Was there a 
single incident in all my dealing with him in which I had 
not been wholly selfish—supremely indifferent to every 
interest but my own? Alma! Had I not used her friend¬ 
ship shamelessly—taking all and giving so little in re¬ 
turn? Even with Terry had I not thought more of my 
own gratification than of his happiness? . . . And now 


324 


SPILLED WINE 


Adrian—Adrian whom I worshipped with the very blood 
of my soul, for whom I would gladly have given life itself 
—Adrian was to be my atonement. 

I shivered as the truth of this conviction sank ever 
deeper and deeper into my consciousness. 

Into my pillow I wept such tears as I had never 
dreamed could be, tears that were like fire in my eyes and 
ice on my heart. In those hours I looked down into the 
bottomless pit of despair; I stood outside the gates of 
Paradise and knew that I myself had lost the key. 

When Thursday morning came I climbed the little 
hill at the back of the cottage and seating myself upon 
the gate that led into the pine wood I watched with 
strained eyes the stretch of high road along which the 
Selbourn car would pass on its way to and from the 
station. 

But the morning passed—and the afternoon—and still 
Adrian did not come. . . . 

It was five o’clock. Already the dusk was beginning 
to fall. Very soon I should be unable to see the road 
clearly. What could possibly be keeping him? . . . 

My fingers were stiff and senseless, my whole body 
numbed with the cold, but I scarcely noticed it. An 
agony of dread foreboding seemed to be playing with 
savage skill upon every nerve in my body. 

Could it be possible that he never would come again, 
that the calamity that haunted me had actually befallen 
him? 

A faintness came over me. I felt myself sway in the 
fading light. . . . 

The next moment there came a sound of snapping 


SPILLED WINE 


32 5 

twigs behind me, a voice crying “Ann!” and I found my¬ 
self crumpling up in Adrian’s arms. 

“You poor little frozen darling!” he exclaimed in con¬ 
sternation as he took me bodily into his embrace. “What 
in the name of all the saints are you doing out here at 
this time of day? You’ll catch your death of cold!” 

And then the last thread of my self-control gave way. 
Clutching his great fur-lined coat with my stiff fingers I 
sobbed hysterically, choking out the burden of my fear 
in wild, incoherent sentences. 

“I—I was waiting—for you. I thought you’d come 
along the road and—and when you didn’t I—I started 
thinking—all sorts of things. I thought you’d been 
killed or—or something terrible. I thought you’d never 
come back any more!” 

As he lifted my tear-wet face to his I think he guessed 
something of all I had been suffering. 

“My darling! My precious! My sweet!” he mur¬ 
mured, gently kissing my brow, my eyelids, my trembling 
mouth. “I’m never going to leave you any more if I can 
help it. And when you’re my wife I must see that you’re 
looked after better than this. Why, your hands are like 
ice!” 

And taking off his great coat he wrapped it skilfully 
about my shivering body. 

Its warmth was delightful; the sudden relief of his 
return was overpowering, but at the word “wife” I re¬ 
membered the task I had set myself. 

“Please!” I began with the timidity of a child repeat¬ 
ing a difficult lesson. “You—you mustn’t say that—not 
until you know everything there is to know. I ought to 
have told you the other evening. I had no right to let 


326 SPILLED WINE 

you kiss me without, but somehow I—I couldn’t help 
myself.” 

“Of course you couldn’t, you dear little goose, if you 
really love me and I believe you do,” he replied ex¬ 
ultantly. “But you must come indoors now. I can’t let 
you stay out here any longer.” 

Again I clung to him desperately, imploringly. 

“No, no!” I begged. “I must tell you now—at once. 
Already the suspense has been terrible. Please let me tell 
you!” 

Again he put his arms about me, holding me like a child 
against his breast. 

“Poor little girl! Poor little Ann!” he murmured. 
“How unkind I have been to you! Not for worlds would 
I have gone if I’d known. But I thought, I imagined 
somehow, that you wanted to be quite alone.” 

“I did. I did. But only until I had got everything 
clear in my mind. Then I wanted to come to you at once 
—while I had the courage.” 

“The courage? But what for, my darling?” 

“To tell you—about myself—my past, to explain to 
you that I am not at all the girl you think I am, that you 
have been wanting to marry.” 

“The girl I want to marry—am going to marry—is in 
my arms. Nothing can alter that.” 

“But you don’t know! Oh, you don’t know!” 

“Then try me! Put me to the test!” 

And there, in the waning light of the spring afternoon, 
on the very gate upon which I had first yielded to the 
temptation of Terry’s pleading, I told him the full story 
of my two illicit loves, the only incidents of my life that I 
had ever purposely kept hidden from him. 


SPILLED WINE 327 

I spared myself nothing in the telling. I offered no 
excuses, no extenuating circumstances. I merely stated 
facts as they had happened, bluntly, brutally. The recita¬ 
tion sounded crude and hideous in my own ears. I turned 
my head so that I might not see the expression on 
Adrian’s face. I was glad of the darkness that was 
creeping in about us. 

From a state of frozen numbness I passed to one of 
burning heat. My heart beat like a great pump until the 
blood felt as though it must burst in my temples. I was 
terrified at what I was doing. I cannot describe the 
paralysing fear that possessed me. I knew that I was 
deliberately risking the greatest chance of happiness that 
had ever come to me or ever would come. Yet I kept 
doggedly on to the end. 

“I—I can’t—even attempt to explain—Gustave,” I 
heard myself saying in a voice that sounded harsh and 
strangled as though the muscles of my throat were spas¬ 
modically closing upon it. “I didn’t even care for him. 
I despised him. I think at times I almost loathed him— 
but not nearly as much as I afterwards came to loathe 
myself. . . . With Terry it was different. I loved him. 
I realize now it was not the great love I thought, but it 
was love, the best I was capable of at the time. I have 
never, somehow, been able to feel really ashamed or 
sorry about that—until the other evening—when you 
kissed me—and I compared it with my present love for 
you. ... I never told him about Gustave. I don’t know 
why. It never occurred to me to do so. But with you 
it was different. I wanted to be quite, quite honest. I 
think I would rather lose you altogether than deceive 
you.” 



SPILLED WINE 


328 

I ceased speaking. My voice seemed to echo for a 
long while, to hang suspended in the folds of wraith-like 
mist that were creeping steadily upwards from the river. 
Then it trailed away helplessly into silence. 

Adrian gave no sign of having heard me. The pres¬ 
sure of his arms had not slackened. I could feel his 
warm, agitated breath against my neck. It was damping 
the fur collar of the “British warm” in which my fright¬ 
ened body lay like a trapped bird in a nest. 

“That’s all. I’ve told you everything,” I added after 
a pause that seemed an eternity. “Adrian dear—speak 
to me.” 

But still for some moments he did not answer. Then, 
suddenly, a great sob seemed to rend him; his breath 
came in short, painful jerks. 

“Ann! Ann! Oh, you poor, poor darling!” he cried. 
“Did you really think that anything—like that—could 
possibly make any difference, could stop me loving you? 
If anything I love you more. I love your honesty. I 
think you’re the straightest, whitest woman I’ve ever 
met!” 

“But think!” I urged. “It must have made some 
difference? You can’t feel the same towards me as you 
did before. If you had known all along you would never 
have begun to love me.” 

“But, my dear, I did!” 

Amazed I turned and peered into his face. 

“What do you mean?” I whispered. 

“Just that. I did know—at least I knew all about 
young Terrance Conningham. A cousin of his was a sub¬ 
altern in my regiment—a fellow named Denbeigh. We 
were rather friendly. He came to Conningham’s funeral 


SPILLED WINE 


329 

and one evening, in a dug-out, we got talking about family 
matters and he told me all about it—about you. Some¬ 
how the incident seemed to have impressed itself upon 
his mind. He said he would never forget the look in 
your eyes. Of course I didn’t know it was you—until I 
met you last autumn and found you were staying at 
‘Brill-Ray’ and that your name was ‘Ann.’ Then I 
guessed—and a stray bit of local gossip confirmed the 
guess.” 

“But the—the other?” 

“You mean the affair in Paris? My dear, I guessed 
that too, partly from the knowledge I gained of your 
temperament that day on the journey and partly from 
your novel ‘Petronia.’ Something of the sort was almost 
bound to have happened. Your youth and freedom, your 
intense curiosity concerning life in general—all those 
things were against you. I realized it the moment you 
were gone. That was one of the reasons I tried so hard 
to find you again. In a way I felt myself responsible. 
I was responsible. I ought never to have let you go.” 

Slowly, wonderingly, I took his face between my two 
hands, gazed searchingly into his shadowy features. A 
strange bewilderment obsessed me, a dreamy sense of 
incredulity. 

“But surely, surely it has made some difference?” I 
insisted. 

He turned his head from side to side so that he kissed 
each of my palms in turn, a very gentle kiss, almost the 
kiss that a man might have given his mother. 

“How can I convince you, my doubting one?” he 
answered, his voice throbbing with tenderness. “Listen! 
This is the truth and nothing but the truth. Before God 


SPILLED WINE 


330 

I swear it! I love you, if anything, more because of all 
you have told me. For one thing in the very telling 
you have paid me the greatest compliment any woman 
could pay any man. You didn’t have to tell me, but I’m 
glad you did—and very proud. Secondly, everything 
that has happened in your past life, even the tiniest in¬ 
cident, has had some part in making you what you are, 
and what you are—the you that is you—I love and rev¬ 
erence to the uttermost limits of my capacity. When a 
connoisseur discovers an exquisite piece of china does it 
trouble him whether the hands of the potter were clean 
when he shaped it? Would such knowledge affect his ap¬ 
preciation? My dear, it’s fundamentals that matter— 
the realities of the soul, the finished masterpiece—not 
the surface incidents of creation. If you had been too 
perfect I should never have dared to love you. It’s your 
humanness that’s so adorable! . . . Oh, my Little One, 
my Sweetheart! Can’t you see I’m telling you the truth? 

Ten minutes later Adrian climbed over the gate, lifted 
me down beside him and began to lead me across the 
Marsh to where the warm light of old Nanny’s kitchen 
glowed like a red eye through the mist. 

“I’ve just remembered that I’ve had nothing to eat 
since eleven o’clock,” he announced suddenly. “Won’t 
you, please, invite me in to tea?” 



EPILOGUE 


E VERY now and then as I write I pause to gaze 
dreamily out through the big bay window before 
me, the window of the Venetian salon that was once 
Anthea’s boudoir. 

My sister-in-law has been dead eighteen months and 
the room has become my study. In it, day by day 
through the winter that has just passed, I have written 
this halting record of my life. Sometimes I think it will 
be the last thing I shall ever write. Great happiness has 
a way of thrusting everything else, even the desire for 
artistic creation, into the background. And I am very 
happy! 

It is the spring of 1922, a glorious day at the very 
end of April. Of the mingling scents that come in to me 
through the open window, that of lilac is the strongest 
and sweetest. It is like an incense rising up out of the 
full heart of my Eden—a prayer, a sigh, a benediction. 

Other things come in as well—for instance the sound 
of Adrian whistling! . . . 

He has just gone along the flag-stoned pathway leading 
from the water-lily pond to the miniature Temple of 
Venus. . . . Now he is coming back again. . . . He has 
paused to examine the cracked arm of a dancing 
faun. . .. 

As he stands there in the sunlight I find myself watch- 

331 


332 


SPILLED WINE 


ing him with a passionate delight, noting every little 
intimate detail of his appearance. He is dressed in a 
very old Norfolk jacket and a pair of riding-breeches 
and his hair is ruffled carelessly about his bare head. 
He has a pipe in one corner of his mouth and he carries 
a pair of gardener’s clippers. I think he is in the midst 
of his annual ceremony of trimming the superb yew hedge 
that entirely surrounds the Italian garden. 

Suddenly, as I look, there comes a treble shriek of 
wild delight and a tiny, golden-haired boy of three comes 
capering madly down one of the paths, to fling himself 
breathlessly against his father’s knees. 

With a brief, “Hullo, Sonny!” Adrian stoops down and 
hoists the tiny fellow up to his shoulders. Then, with 
one sturdy leg dangling down upon either side of his 
chest, the two march happily out of sight. 

Moments pass and I hear that baby treble again, float¬ 
ing deliciously towards me from some more distant part 
of the garden. I can hear the quick patter of his eager 
feet upon the path, the staccato barking of a dog, min¬ 
gling with sudden peals of joyous merriment! 

And putting down my pen I sit and dream! ... Of 
what? I scarcely know. Perhaps of that quaint legend 
of the Pied Piper and of the children dancing after him 
in the streets of Hamelin Town. 

Already my little son has caught the first faint notes 
of the tune which ere long will swell into an irresistible 
melody. Already I sometimes fancy I can trace a look 
of solemn wistfulness in his baby eyes—such blue, blue 
eyes—as, for no apparent reason, he pauses suddenly in 
his play to gaze dreamily away into the far distance. 


SPILLED WINE 


333 


Soon he too will be dancing out upon the Great High 
Road of life, following the beckoning figure of the Eternal 
Piper. And I shall be left behind—but not wholly out 
of reach, for have I not the gift of an Evergreen Memory? 


Finis. 

























































•• 










































































































































































